


Aim Your Arrow at the Sky

by coffeeonthebrunhild



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robin Hood Fusion, M/M, Minor Allura/Lance (Voltron), Nobleman Shiro, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Sparring, Thief Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeonthebrunhild/pseuds/coffeeonthebrunhild
Summary: Shiro’s careful footfalls stumbled to an abrupt halt—a lithe figure had just materialized from a doorway not seven feet in front of him. A bold red cloak shrouded the man’s body, hiding his head under a loose hood, and a sack of deep brown leather was thrown over his shoulder.Shiro readied a quip on his tongue—something along the lines of“Sorry, Red Riding Hood, this isn’t your grandmother’s house”—but the words died on his lips when the thief noticed him. Light from an iron sconce at the doorway bathed his face in softly flickering shades of gold, revealing a red cloth mask with slits cut for eyes.Really, what kind of thief wears bright red?Shiro scoffed inwardly.It’s like he’s asking the Garrison to catch him.--Shiro sets out to catch a thief, but gets his heart stolen instead.





	1. Chapter 1

If boredom could kill, Shiro would be a pile of bleached bones by now.

Growing up as the heir to the oldest and most powerful family in Nottingham had taught him plenty of boredom management skills. How to keep his expression sharp, for instance, even when he was seconds away from face-planting onto the broad oak table in Garrison Hall. How to zone out with extreme prejudice, catching only the pieces of conversation that interested him and pouncing on his opportunities like a hunting tiger. How to deliver his arguments with the savvy of a lord twice his age, so even the stodgy old nobles who shared the table couldn’t poke holes in his logic.

But being good at negotiating didn’t mean he enjoyed it. _Patience yields focus_ was the mantra his grandfather had pounded into him since childhood, but when Lady Sanda passed the half hour mark in her rant about possible poachers in the forest, Shiro found that both his patience and his focus were in short supply. He was willing to bet that the only reason Sendak hadn’t interrupted yet was because the sheriff was actually asleep behind his eyepatch.

Shiro might have skipped out on these monthly town hall meetings entirely, if not for the dessert tray Sendak always served. He liked to think of himself as strong-willed, but evenings like this one forced him to confront an uncomfortable truth—when faced with the prospect of chocolate-covered strawberries, Shiro was a weak man.

Still, he thought he might trade the sweets for a straight fight, hand to hand in the dust of the practice ring. He knew Sendak trained himself diligently—surely the sheriff would rather settle this by skill next time, and spare them from all this talking in circles?

 _No,_ Shiro lamented, studying Sendak’s impassive face, _I suppose not._

It was on nights like this, trapped inside on a massive, uncomfortable chair and surrounded by stuffy company, that Shiro missed Keith the most. He would have given anything to see his old friend appear in the circular window behind the table, inviting Shiro to sneak away for a moonlight race.

But, if wishes were horses… Shiro suppressed a sigh. Even if by some miracle Keith was still alive, he wouldn’t come back to the town that had branded him an outlaw.

Shiro swallowed down the heavy ache in his chest, and tried to focus on anything else. At least it seemed like Sendak was listening to him, for now. He had agreed not to hike taxes again after Shiro convinced him the recent string of robberies was the work of an outsider. Nottingham’s economy was still struggling to recover from the war; the people’s pockets couldn’t handle any more unreasonable demands.

Ah, was that a twitch in Sendak’s jaw? Shiro perked up—maybe the sheriff was finally ready to end this rambling charade.

Then he heard it—the jarring clang of the Garrison’s alarm, sounding from right outside the doors to their meeting room.

A sharply dressed young guard— _Griffin,_ Shiro recognized him from Keith’s class—burst through the doors with his arm already poised in a salute. “Sir! Two thieves sighted at Lady Sanda’s mansion. Officers Kinkade and Rizavi currently in pursuit. Ready to mobilize reserves on your order.”

Shiro almost groaned out loud. After all his work convincing the sheriff not to increase taxes, the thieves had to show up now? Their sense of timing alone was criminal.

Sendak shot to his feet, his chair sliding back with an ugly screech that made Shiro wince. “Do it. I’ll take point. Consider this meeting adjourned.”

With that he stormed from the room. Lady Sanda and the other gathered nobles immediately bustled after him, no doubt worried about their own wealth being stolen. Shiro couldn’t help thinking that maybe if Lady Sanda had cut at least fifteen minutes off of her poaching speech, she might have been home in time to stop the thieves. At least she had the entire might of the Garrison out in force to help her catch them…

Wait. The entire might of the Garrison…?

Shiro poked his head into the hall. Sure enough, the complex had all but emptied. Apparently when Griffin said the reserves were ready to mobilize, he meant all of them. They were going to look ridiculous, clogging up the streets like a pack of overeager hounds chasing a pair of foxes.

But if all of the Garrison’s forces were out pursuing the thieves, that left their headquarters unprotected.

Maybe Shiro was being paranoid. Maybe he was so bored that he had to invent something for himself to do, even if it turned out to be pointless. But whatever the reason, something about this setup just didn’t feel right. If he was wrong, at least he would manage to kill some time before heading home to a glass of wine and an early rest.  


But if his hunch was right….

His instincts took him up the winding stairs, past the portraits of former sheriffs (his own great-grandfather among them) and into a long, carpeted hallway of rarely-used storage rooms. Rows of sconces burned cheerfully along the passage—a waste of oil, considering nobody was up here—and the balcony doors at the other end of the hall stood open, allowing a soft breeze to freshen the air. He cocked a suspicious brow at the latter; shouldn’t those doors be closed at this time of evening?

Shiro’s careful footfalls stumbled to an abrupt halt—a lithe figure had just materialized from a doorway not seven feet in front of him. A bold red cloak shrouded the man’s body, hiding his head under a loose hood, and a sack of deep brown leather was thrown over his shoulder. The sack bulged with enough loot to strain its seams, a hint of gold glittering in the torchlight at its hastily tied mouth.

The doorway he came from led down to the treasury vault.

Shiro readied a quip on his tongue—something along the lines of _“Sorry, Red Riding Hood, this isn’t your grandmother’s house”_ —but the words died on his lips when the thief noticed him. The man froze in mid-stride, his entire body rigid, as though the covert grace with which he had crept into the hall had been an illusion. Light from an iron sconce at the doorway bathed his face in softly flickering shades of gold, revealing a red cloth mask with slits cut for eyes. Shiro couldn’t see much of his expression behind the mask, but somehow he sensed that the man’s eyes had gone wide and shocked, like he’d just seen the wolf in his grandmother’s clothing.

 _Really, what kind of thief wears bright red?_ Shiro scoffed inwardly. _It’s like he’s asking the Garrison to catch him._

He could feel Red’s gaze dragging over him, burning along the length of the scar across his nose and smoldering down the aborted stump of his right bicep, where the sleeve of his gray shirt was tied in a loose knot. Shiro quirked a tolerant eyebrow and let him stare. The missing arm always drew eyes like a magnet, though most people pretended not to notice the absence. After years of being tiptoed around, Shiro actually found Red’s blatant interest refreshing. It felt like someone was finally looking at him, at the real Takashi Shirogane—not at the broken man they expected him to be.

Besides, Red looked like he had his own stories to tell. A tied bandanna of a slightly darker burgundy hung loose around his neck, leaving the bottom half of his face uncovered. His sharply cut jaw tapered down to a pointed chin, marred only by the thick, wicked scar curving from his right jawline up to a point behind the edge of his mask. Shiro wondered what kind of weapon could leave a wound like that; with the smooth way the scar had healed, it almost looked more like a burn than a cut.

The insistent clang of the Garrison’s call to arms continued to sound through the open balcony doors to Shiro’s right, accompanied by a scattered din of shouting and mayhem which moved further away with every moment. Whoever served as Red’s diversion was doing an admirable job. If Shiro hadn’t happened down this hallway, Red and his treasury spoils would be long gone by now.

As it was, he would have to pass by Shiro to make his escape onto the balcony. Shiro let his hand hang loose, fingers twitching close to the knife in his belt, while options pulsed through his head in time with his heartbeat.

If he wanted to call for the guards, he would need to do it now, before Red’s comrades led them further away from the building. Should he draw his knife, try to capture the thief himself? Red was smaller than Shiro, leaner, but he certainly didn’t look weak; if that scar was any indication, he could be especially deadly when he was cornered.

Or, should Shiro stand down and look the other way, so the people could see a blow struck against the sheriff’s tightfisted control? If he chose that path, the exhausting evening he had just spent talking Sendak out of harsher repercussions would be for nothing. Sendak’s lenience was in short supply, especially where his personal pride was concerned—and by stealing treasury gold from under his nose, Red would be tracking muddy footprints all over that pride. But could it be worth it, if it showed the people they weren’t helpless?

Shiro licked dry lips, sweat beading at his temple.

_Come on, Red Riding Hood. What’s your move?_

In a slow, controlled fall, the sack slid from the thief’s shoulder, landing on the violet rug with barely a clink of metal. Red moved two smooth steps away from his discarded prize—Shiro noted with exasperation that even his _boots_ were red—and reached back into the folds of his cloak. Shiro tensed, ready for an attack, as Red produced a dagger from a sheath hidden behind his back. The blade was forged from a dark metal Shiro had never seen before, glinting almost purple in the flickering torchlight.

Red settled into a casual fighting stance, head cocked slightly to the side as he watched Shiro. Slowly, with deliberate smugness, he began to toss the dagger, blade flipping hypnotically end over end until the hilt landed safely in his expert hand. Every time he caught it, the tip of the blade pointed directly at Shiro’s face.

A pinch of dry kindling sparked low in Shiro’s gut. When was the last time he really tested himself in a fight? Not since before the accident. He couldn’t even remember a decent sparring session, not since before Keith left town. The straw mannequins he had set up in his courtyard for exercise hardly counted as worthy opponents.

His eyes traced the blade’s arc, up and down through the air. There was no question Red knew his way around a knife fight. Shiro forced a swallow past his dry throat. Temptation sizzled like goosebumps under his skin.

As slowly and deliberately as he tossed his knife, the corner of Red’s lips curled upwards into a smirk.

 _Well._ If the man wanted a beating so badly, who was Shiro to deny him?

The knife was in Shiro’s hand before he finished the thought, his mouth curving in an answering smirk of his own.

They sprang together on an unspoken signal, metal ringing against metal. Shiro’s smirk grew into a grin of reckless delight when Red immediately struck at his vulnerable right side. The cadets in training at the Garrison took one look at Shiro's white hair and his missing arm and deemed him fragile, like an ancient urn to be handled with care. They opened doors for him and carried his belongings as though he hadn’t been living with the loss for over three years now. He knew their hearts were in the right place, and their deference came at least partly out of respect, but in his darker moments the treatment still rankled.

But now, Red had pierced through his feelings of frustration and inadequacy with a single well-aimed swipe of his dagger. Shiro’s feet flew as he spun to compensate, launching into a kick with three years of pent up violence behind it. Red’s body leaned into a diagonal dodge which transitioned seamlessly into an unarmed uppercut at Shiro’s chin. Shiro felt the aftershock of the blow in the air as he twisted himself out of range.

The exchange evolved into a dance, both men matching each other move for move in the golden torchlight. The bustle of the Garrison’s pursuit below faded away, leaving only the soft rustle of boots on carpet and the crisp rhythm of knife meeting knife. Shiro banished conscious thought in favor of instinct, breath synchronizing with his opponent’s movements.

Red was all that Shiro could have hoped for and more. His form mixed fierce power and deadly agility, with a pinch of feral grace for good measure. He would have been breathtaking to watch, if Shiro wasn’t too busy spinning, guarding, and counter-striking across the hall to properly observe him. The first time he passed his dagger effortlessly between his hands for a follow-up strike at Shiro’s back, Shiro almost let out a low whistle of appreciation—but the sound turned into a grunt as he blocked a heavy thrust with his wrist.

Obviously. Of _course_ Red was ambidextrous. After all, if God gave a man two perfectly capable arms, why shouldn’t he use both of them equally? Shiro had to acknowledge the practicality, even as he narrowly avoided getting a second scar sliced into his face.

A whirling attack on his right side reminded Shiro to stop thinking.

He tried to return the favor by slicing Red across the nose, but the smaller man ducked under Shiro’s swipe, bending his torso backwards as though playing a game of limbo. The scarlet hood fell to reveal a mane of dark hair, drawn back into an unruly short tail, with scattered loose strands clinging to his sweaty forehead. The sight wiped Shiro’s mind blank for an instant—long enough for Red to reclaim his balance in a ridiculous feat of core strength and spin for a grappling hold on Shiro’s back.

_Oops._

Shiro turned his body into Red’s momentum, breaking his hold with a precise elbow jab, but the thief had switched knife hands behind his back. Expecting no less, Shiro dodged sideways, ready to lash out with another bone breaking kick.

He did _not_ expect Red’s gray-violet blade to suddenly extend more than twice its original length, edge curling in a wicked curve that slashed through the flesh of Shiro’s upper arm.

Apparently Red hadn’t expected it either—the grin vanished from his face, blade retracting with a lavender flash.

“I’m sor—”

The words cut off as the full force of Shiro’s boot slammed squarely into his solar plexus. Red launched through the air like a weightless doll, hitting the wall with a painful smack. He let out a strangled cough as he slid back down to his feet.

“Sorry? For what?” Shiro charged the wall. He had an instant to see Red’s eyes go wide behind the mask before he sliced down at the thief’s neck. When Red barely managed to parry the blow, arm trembling from the strain, Shiro caught him with an elbow jab to the chin instead. “You scared of a little blood, Red Riding Hood?”

Red may have made an indignant sound—Shiro couldn’t be sure over the desperate pounding of his heartbeat. He continued his barrage, nearly dislodging a wall sconce and setting the whole hall on fire. It had been far too long since he’d had this much fun. If Red shied away now because of one shallow flesh wound, Shiro would feel like all of his joy in the past few minutes had been a lie. He didn’t know if he could stand the letdown.

Red slanted his head to avoid a particularly vehement swing of Shiro’s knife, strands of dark hair sliced off less than an inch from his ear. He danced back a pace to aim a high kick which Shiro blocked with his forearm.

“I’m just watching out for you,” Red said, twisting free from Shiro’s attempted arm lock. “A little cut can be serious for someone your age.”

Shiro froze, staring. For a moment he thought he imagined the voice—warm, quiet, and just the right side of rough—until he saw Red’s mouth curve back into that blessed, taunting smile.

“Glad to see you respect your elders,” Shiro managed, voice cracking with relief. He bared his teeth in an answering grin. “Grandma would be proud.”

He lunged. Red twirled out of reach, feinting right but ducking left at the last moment. He snagged Shiro’s arm in the crook of his elbow, shifting behind his back and _twisting_. Shiro let out a muffled growl of pain as his knife tumbled harmlessly to the carpet. Before he could move, he felt sharp, cold metal press close and deadly against his throat.

It really was helpful to have two arms.

“Careful, old timer,” Red purred into his ear. Shiro chased away the memory of the last time he had been called that; somehow it felt inappropriate to be remembering Keith in a situation like this. He could feel Red’s breath on his skin, warm and a little ragged, and his heat radiated against Shiro’s back. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

A self-satisfied lilt had crept into the thief’s voice. Pleasant as it may have been, Shiro couldn’t let Red get too full of himself.

He threw his weight backwards, turning his body inward to break free from Red’s grip. A stinging drag against his neck told him he would have another shallow mark from the blade, maybe even a temporary scar, but it was worth it to see Red’s mouth fall open in shock. Shiro dropped his center of gravity and threw his full weight at the smaller man’s chest, shoulder-first.

He savored the undignified squawk that escaped Red’s throat when his back smashed into the wall. He didn’t waste a second, grasping Red’s slender wrist and twisting the dagger out of his grip. In close quarters, with no room for Red’s speed and agility to aid him, Shiro’s size and brute strength gave him the advantage—he used all of his height and weight to pin Red tight against the wall, one arm trapped beneath the pressure of his shoulder, the other still held fast in his hand, also pressed against the stone.

Pinning Red within the brightest glow of the nearest sconce hadn’t been Shiro’s intent, but he didn’t mind congratulating himself on the result. He dragged his eyes from the black leather glove covering the thief’s hand— _Fingerless? Really?_ —and tilted his chin down to get his first close look at the man’s face.

Red’s mouth was twisted into a frown, and Shiro could see the furrowed lines of his dark brows under the upper edge of the cloth mask. His eyes were a shade somewhere between deep blue and violet, like the sky at dusk when the first stars came out, striking in their intensity. There was something haunting about those eyes, something that carried the bittersweet flavor of nostalgia. Shiro bent closer to Red’s face, drawn in by an elusive thread of familiarity. He found himself lamenting the loss of his right arm; he wanted to peel the red cloth from the thief’s skin and expose the truth hidden underneath.

The petulance had faded from Red’s expression as he met Shiro’s gaze, and now he searched Shiro’s eyes as though he might find his own answers in their depths. Shiro wondered, absently, what he was searching for. His eyes really were beautiful—it was a color Shiro had never expected to see the likes of again.

Perhaps Shiro had grown too engrossed in enjoying his perspective, or perhaps he just underestimated how slippery Red could be—but without breaking eye contact, without adjusting his expression at all, Red suddenly slipped his wrist out of Shiro’s hold and hooked a foot around Shiro’s ankle, twisting with all of his strength. Shiro was falling before he realized what was happening. He barked out a startled laugh as his back hit the carpet, knocking the breath from his lungs. Red landed heavily across Shiro’s chest, limbs scrambling to pin him inextricably to the ground.

Shiro jostled his legs, but Red sprawled close over his body, not granting him any leverage. He tried to move his arm, but Red’s forearm pinned his wrist to the floor with surprising strength. Shiro required only a few seconds’ struggle to acknowledge that he was well and truly stuck.

Red’s chest heaved against Shiro’s, lips parted in a triumphant grin. Pure exaltation shone in his eyes. Looking at him, Shiro could almost believe he had never won a fight before. It was impossible not to smile back.

Shiro let his head fall against the plush carpet. “Okay, Red. You got me. I yield.”

“Glad you know when to quit,” Red replied playfully. He relaxed slightly, but he made no move to get up—and if he was being honest, Shiro was in no hurry to make him. He smelled like evergreen needles, with a hint of crisp campfire smoke. It was nice.

“You’re really ruthless, you know?” Shiro indicated his right shoulder with a shrug. "Who fights all out against an elderly man with a missing arm?”

Red made a lovely scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “You want me to go easy on you next time?”

 _Next time._ The words sent sparks through Shiro’s veins.

“Definitely not,” he replied. Red chuckled warmly.

“Good.” His fingers lightly traced the bloody tear in Shiro’s sleeve, following the line of the wound his dagger had made. Shiro tilted his head, trying to catch Red’s now pensive gaze.

“I’m fine. It’s not like that’s the only arm I have—oh, wait.” He knew it was a tasteless joke as soon as it left his mouth—Red’s instant frown only reinforced the fact. Shiro grimaced. “Too much?”

“Way too much,” Red agreed. His other hand slid over Shiro’s right shoulder, trailing down to slide the fabric of the tied sleeve between his fingers. He breathed in slow, hesitant, the question clearly on the tip of his tongue. Shiro found himself smiling—the mask couldn’t hide the way Red projected his feelings like an open book.

Just as Red opened his mouth to speak, a low hooting call sounded through the open balcony doors. Red snapped his head toward the noise, body tensing. Shiro was impressed; if not for the situation, he would have believed the call came from a real owl.

“Sorry, old timer.” Was it just Shiro’s imagination, or was there a note of sadness in Red’s voice now? “As much as I enjoyed our dance, it sounds like my ride is here.”

“That’s too bad. I guess you shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

Still, Red hesitated, as though he had so much more he wanted to say and no idea where to start. The hooting sounded again, somehow more insistent this time. Shiro marveled that the person outside could infuse a fake bird call with such a sense of urgency. He both admired and pitied them for the hours they must have spent perfecting it.

“Go,” Shiro said gently. “You beat me, so I won’t try to stop you.”

Red nodded, springing to his feet with catlike agility. Shiro held back a regretful sigh at the loss of his warmth. He sat slowly, testing the ache in his muscles— _maybe I_ do _feel a little old_ —and watched in silence as Red collected his magic dagger and the sack of treasury gold.

There were plenty of perfectly reasonable things Shiro could have said, under the circumstances. _Who are you? Why are you doing this? How can I find you? When will I see you again?_

What came out of his mouth was, “Don’t forget you owe me a rematch.”

He restrained himself from slapping his palm over his eyes in mortification, while Red covered his dark hair with the scarlet hood. The thief’s face was cast into shadow, but Shiro thought he may have seen the hint of a smile before Red turned away.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Red said.

He loped out onto the balcony and hopped onto the carved marble railing. In an inhuman display of balance, he performed a swift pirouette, saluted Shiro with two fingers and a brilliantly cocky grin, and then leapt backwards into the night.

Shiro scrambled to his feet and darted outside, gripping the railing tightly as he stared over the edge. There was no sign of Red to be found below. No prone body splattered on the cobblestones, so Shiro supposed that was something. Still, someone dressed so ostentatiously had no business vanishing into the dark like that.

Shiro slumped against the railing, laughing to himself, and pushed his hand through his tousled hair. Explaining this to Sendak was going to be fun. Shiro definitely wouldn’t be able to hold back the sheriff’s retribution now.

He knew it was irresponsible—he was a lord, after all, and protecting the people under his charge was his dearest responsibility—but even though they might suffer the consequences of his actions tonight, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He smiled as Red’s voice whispered back to him on the breeze.

_Next time._

How long had it been since Shiro actually had something to look forward to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time posting any of my writing online, so I'm pretty nervous! I started daydreaming about this AU while I was at the theater seeing Robin Hood last November. I have a lot of fun ideas I'd like to play with if I can develop them enough.
> 
> The title comes from a line in "Sky Full of Song" by Florence + the Machine.
> 
> You can find me lurking on Twitter & retweeting art @SundaySEternal


	2. Chapter 2

Keith savored the weightless sensation of his body in freefall for half a heartbeat before he snagged the bottom edge of the balustrade in both hands. Before his fingers could slip, he used his momentum to swing his legs to either side of one of the consoles tapering down to the wall, bracing his boots against the stone, and transferred one hand at a time to cracked handholds he knew by heart. As he worked his way down, climbing upside-down like a sloth in a tree, the melody of Shiro’s incredulous laughter floated down from the balcony.

The stupid grin on Keith’s face grew wider. Yeah, maybe he should’ve felt guilty—Pidge would chew him out for throwing off their timetable—but he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

When he reached the wall, he dangled his body sideways until the toe of one boot hooked into a broad trellis. Keith would never understand the need to cover the side of a building with an infestation of flowers—the overwhelming fragrance pouring from the bushy blue blossoms was just as headache-inducing as he remembered—but he had to appreciate the trellis as a convenient ladder. Within thirty seconds he was on cobblestone ground, slinking behind the rose bushes that lined the walkway. He stuck to the shadows and scaled the crumbling east wall without drawing a single glance from the distracted gate guard.

Sneaking out of the Garrison’s compound was still stupidly easy, even after five years away.

It was hard to believe he had been gone for half a decade, seeing how little the town had changed since he left. The same faded signs dangled from the shop doors, no more or less dilapidated than the last time he saw them. The same wagons rested in the same evening spaces, and the same wooden barrels occupied the same dank corners. He ducked out of sight of passersby almost on muscle memory, staying concealed as he crept between buildings and along narrow alleys.

He might have believed the town untouched by time and war, if not for the cobwebs of quiet depression that seemed to cling to his arms and legs as he moved. When he’d snuck into town for his previous heists, the aura of oppression and defeat he sensed from the townspeople had left a bitter taste in his mouth. The lack of change he saw on the surface only compounded the sense of wrongness crawling under his skin.

At least there was a crackle of excitement on the streets tonight, as gawkers milled in the direction of the Garrison’s clanging alarm. Keith had no trouble avoiding any unwanted attention as he turned down the dirt path leading to the tiny two-horse stable behind the miller’s house.

Pidge materialized from the bushes near the back entrance. She was dressed in a deep green cloak that would have made her invisible in the forest, with a hood covering her short hair.

“What took you so long?” she hissed. “Lance and Allura are halfway across town by now.”

“Just had to shake off a little trouble.” Keith swung the sack of loot from his shoulders and dropped it at her feet. He couldn’t see her expression properly in the dark, but he felt the pressure of her narrowed eyes scanning his shrouded face. He hoped she couldn’t see the dazed grin he couldn’t seem to banish.

Pidge had warned Keith about Shiro’s accident. She didn’t know the extent of his wounds or exactly how it happened, but even if she had, Keith didn’t think anything could have prepared him for what he saw. The empty right sleeve of Shiro’s shirt, the bold scar across the bridge of his nose, the snow-white hair—all of it painted a picture of trauma and suffering that stole the breath from Keith’s lungs. But where Nottingham felt like a different town wearing the same face, Shiro was the opposite. Despite everything he must have been through, he was still the same man Keith remembered—the same commanding presence, the same impish grin, even that same hopeless sense of humor. In those stolen moments after their bout, bantering casually back and forth, Keith finally felt like he was home.

He blinked back to the moment when Hunk bustled up next to Pidge, wearing a similar cloak of a dull golden shade. It was made more for blending into the desert sands than skulking about shadowy alleys, but it did the job of hiding his features. He grasped the sack of gold protectively.

“Trouble? What kind of trouble? The _someone’s gonna have a headache in the morning_ kind of trouble, or the _help me dispose of the body_ kind?”

Keith scoffed quietly. “Nobody’s dead, Hunk. I promised, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that all this sneaking around in dark corners makes me jumpy.”

“It’s okay. I almost got caught, but I got away clean.” That was honest enough, right?

Pidge clicked her tongue in a way that told him they would continue this conversation later. “I don’t think Lance and Allura will be able to shake the guards on their own. We’re going to have to change the plan.”

Adrenaline pumped irresistibly through Keith’s veins, tingling through his muscles, pushing him to _move._ Honestly, he felt relieved that they couldn’t just rendezvous with the others and scamper back to the woods as planned—after the evening he’d had, a clean escape would be way too anticlimactic.

Besides, Keith felt _good_ right now, like his senses had sharpened and his reflexes transcended conscious thought. Nothing could stop him when he reached this point. Shiro was the fiercest fighter Keith had ever known, and Keith had just managed to pin _him_ down; the sheriff’s men wouldn’t be able to touch him.

“Oh no, not that face,” Hunk groaned. “I hate it when you make that face.” 

“You can’t even see my face right now,” Keith protested, with a gesture encompassing his hood and mask, but Hunk shook his head mournfully.

“No, he’s right; that’s definitely the face,” Pidge agreed sourly.

“The _let’s forget the plan and take unnecessary risks_ face,” Hunk clarified.

“I thought we agreed the plan isn’t working. We need to get the Garrison off Allura and Lance’s backs.” Keith reached for a spare leather sack draped over a barrel next to Hunk. “Here, give me some of the gold. I’ll distract the guards long enough for them to get away.”

“Wait, the gold? What are you planning to do with our gold?” Hunk demanded.

Keith rolled his eyes and began packing loose straw into the bottom of the sack. “You can take it out of my share, okay? Now come on, we don’t have time to argue.” 

Muttering all the while, Hunk helped Keith fill the sack with straw, while Pidge siphoned out a few handfuls of the treasury gold to layer on top for easy access.

“I don’t know what you’re planning to do with this, but if you get caught, know that I’m not going to save you,” she said. Keith supposed that was fair.

“I won’t get caught,” he promised. Pidge yanked the ties closed with a tad more vehemence than necessary and shoved the bag into his chest.

“I hope you know what you’re doing. You’re being really weird tonight.” She tilted her head, sharp eyes probing the shadow of his hood. “Be careful, okay?”

“Try not to do anything _too_ reckless,” Hunk begged. He traced a quick sign of the cross in the air over Keith. “Limit yourself to a minimum recklessness level. Please. For my sake.”

Keith laughed softly. Sometimes the simple fact that he had people in his life who worried about him was a little overwhelming. “Thanks, Hunk, Pidge. Go meet up with Coran. I’ll see all of you back at camp.”

He darted from the miller’s yard without a backward glance, skirting the side of the house until he spotted enough nooks and weathered cracks to make suitable handholds. Hooking the bag over his shoulder, he scampered up the wall and trotted across the gently sloping roof, body bent low. The Garrison’s call to arms acted as a beacon, guiding him through the darkness as he followed the clanging from rooftop to rooftop.

There was always a natural joy to be found in motion, in the burn of his muscles as he propelled his body toward his goal. Nothing compared to the rush of wind in his face and the effortless power he felt on a horse’s back, tearing across the countryside at a full gallop, but fighting with the infantry had taught him to take his thrills where he could find them. The flip of his stomach when he sailed through the air, three stories above the safety of ground level, was at least a decent substitute.

A final leap brought Keith to the stately roof of the church, the tallest building in Nottingham. He sidled past the carved angels crowning the front corners of the structure and shimmied up the side of the pointed spire, bracing his feet against the steep slope.

It didn’t take long to spot what he was looking for—a pair of hooded figures weaved furtively through the maze of alleys below, leading a host of men and women with torchlight gleaming from their raised swords. Allura’s blue-cloaked form was at least a foot taller than her usual height, with bulked up shoulders and long strides eating up the cobblestone. A hapless bundle wrapped in red cloth—Lance—was slung over her left shoulder like a sack of flour.

Keith sniggered at the sight. Either Lance’s soul had evaporated from shame by now, or he’d dissolved into a blushing mess at being so close to Allura. Either way, Keith would mock the hell out of him later.

Allura swung a tight right around an empty merchant’s cart, dashing past a group of startled pub-goers before they could decide whether to help capture her. They ended up impeding the guardsmen instead, who shoved them roughly out of the way.

Keith recognized her path—she was tracing the route he drew out for her beforehand, waiting for a signal that wasn’t coming. She couldn’t head to the rendezvous point now without bringing the entire Garrison down on Hunk and Pidge’s heads, not to mention Coran’s, who waited in a getaway cart just outside the town walls.

The longer the diversion went on, the more Nottingham’s citizens spilled out of their doors to get an eyeful of the action. The extra audience made it harder for Allura to duck away into the shadows. Coran must be worried sick by now.

Okay—maybe Keith felt at least a _little_ guilty for taking so long.

_Well, genius, how are you gonna fix this?_

Keith opened his leather sack, coins glinting as he sifted them between his fingers. Hitting the treasury had been Allura’s idea—she maintained that since Sendak had stolen the taxes from Nottingham in the first place, they were only stealing it back. The thought reminded him of a story his pop used to tell when putting him to bed.

He wrapped one hand around the point of the spire for security, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let loose an ear-splitting whistle.

Hundreds of eyes shifted up to the church roof. The Garrison guards paused in their relentless pursuit, and all of the villagers who gathered in the streets watching the chase craned their necks up toward the spire.

As if on cue, the low-hanging moon peeked out from behind the clouds, bathing Keith in a celestial spotlight of orange-gold.

Having so many eyes on Keith should have made him want to crawl into a hole and never emerge. But in that moment, with the full moon as his backdrop and the church spire as his stage, the attention only stoked the crackling energy in his chest. He wanted to do something big, something spectacular. Lance was always whining that Keith wasn’t flashy enough to be the leader of their little band; if Keith fizzled out now, he would only prove that Lance was right—and _that_ was unthinkable.

He risked a quick glance over his shoulder, back toward Garrison Hall. It might have been a trick of the night, but he thought he spied a splash of white hair on the balcony. Maybe Shiro had settled in to watch the show.

_May as well go all in._

Keith filled his lungs with a gasp of crisp night air, and—though he would die before he admitted it—channeled a little of Lance’s razzle-dazzle.

“People of Nottingham!” His voice reverberated across the rooftops with unexpected clarity. “I have something that belongs to you!”

He drew a handful of golden coins from the bag, letting them sparkle in the moonlight, before flinging them over his head as flamboyantly as possible. The gold rained down onto the streets in a shower, barely hitting the cobblestones before the people surged from their doorways in a frantic scramble of humanity.

He slid elegantly down from the spire and darted to the other end of the church roof, tossing another handful of coins from his bag. His audience mobbed the church steps, tripping and jostling one another—even a few of the Garrison’s guards had already abandoned formation in favor of gold.

A swift sideways glance told him Allura and Lance had already disappeared from the alley. Keith allowed himself a satisfied grin—he knew he could count on Allura to take the chance he gave her, though a tiny part of him was disappointed not to have seen their faces.

He wasn’t the only person who noticed their absence—Sendak’s enraged growl carried over the hubbub. “Where are they? Find them!”

The sheriff’s single eye shifted to the church roof, and Keith felt their gazes cross over the distance. The bile of resentment bubbled in his stomach, burning an acid hole in his chest even after all these years. Behind his eyes, Keith saw the branding iron in the flames, smelled the acrid scent of burning flesh. The fingers of his right hand flexed unconsciously, as though he could feel the imprint of the letter W searing into his wrist all over again. 

The whispers echoed in his mind. _Wolf’shead._ Outlaw. An existence less than human, to be driven out and hunted down just like the predators that threatened their livestock.

It took all of his willpower to hold Sendak’s gaze, and keep himself from checking to make sure the sleeve of his black shirt was still tucked safely into the base of his glove, and then shrouded by the red cloak for good measure. Instead, Keith forced himself to bare his fangs in a grin, and brought two fingers to his brow in a mocking salute—similar to the one he had offered Shiro, but with none of the warmth.

Sendak pointed sharply at the roof. “Capture him!”

Keith took a running start across the sloping peak of the church roof, springing boldly across onto the neighboring building, and kept running, tossing coins as he went.

The time would come for him to deal with Sendak. Right now, his job was to lead the Garrison on a merry chase, long enough for Allura and the others to get far away from the town. Keith knew the roofs and shadowed alleys of this town, had made them his allies more times than he could count. Sendak may rule during the day, but the night in Nottingham belonged to Keith.

By the time the sun peeked its lazy face over the horizon, Keith was well on his way back to the heart of Sherwood, leaving behind only an empty leather sack and the name of a legend on everyone’s lips.

 

 

The sight of a familiar stand of trees filled Keith’s head with wistful thoughts of his warm bedroll. It was still early—with any luck, his noisier comrades might not be awake yet. If he could just sneak past them and get some sleep before the inevitable interrogation…

The telltale pluck of a bow being drawn drew his attention to the treetops. Beneath a curtain of thick pine branches, he picked out the bold red of Lance’s cloak. The sharp metal of an arrowhead gleamed amidst the needles.

“Stop right there,” Lance snapped.

Of course the annoying one found him first. Typical. “Lance. You’ve gotta be kidding.”

 _“Freeze,”_ Lance insisted. “Or I shoot.”

Keith stopped, throwing back his hood with a withering scowl.

“It’s _me._ Are you happy now?”

Lance edged forward on his branch, until his face peeked out from between the needles. Keith could have nailed him in the forehead with a rock at this distance. Too bad there were none at hand. 

“Now we do the password,” Lance announced.

_“Lance.”_

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to keep a lookout!”

“If you know that, then you already know who I am!”

“Rules are rules! I say razzle, you say…”

Keith rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. He should just keep walking. It wasn’t like Lance actually doubted his identity, so he wouldn’t shoot—

The arrow twanged through the air, lodging in the soft soil an inch from the toe of Keith’s lifted boot.

 _“Lance!_ What the hell!?”

Lance nocked another arrow, aimed at Keith’s face, and raised his voice. Any of Keith’s pursuers might have heard him, if they had managed to follow this far. “I say razzle, you say…”

Speaking the stupid phrase out loud killed a little piece of Keith’s soul. “Razzle-dazzle.”

“Yup, that’s Keith,” Lance muttered. He tucked the bow onto his back and sprang down from the tree to collect the arrow at Keith’s feet. Keith contemplated snapping it in half first, but supplies were too scarce out here in the wilderness. Better to step on Lance’s hand instead.

“We need to come up with a better password,” Keith complained while Lance yelped and scrambled away.

“You need to learn how the password works.” Lance jabbed the arrow back into his quiver and put his hands on his hips. “Now that that’s out of the way: what the _hell,_ man?”

“What?” Keith swept his hands into the pockets of his cloak and resumed his stroll into their campsite, leaving Lance to trail at his heels.

The wall of ancient trees gave way to a broad clearing, carpeted by a blanket of moss and fallen needles. Hunk already had a healthy fire blazing toward the center, where he bent over a massive cast-iron pot. The wafting aroma of the breakfast stew he was stirring made Keith’s empty stomach moan.

“You _know_ what!” Lance persisted. “You left Allura and me hanging for who knows how long, and then all of a sudden you’re yelling from the rooftops and throwing away our gold!?”

Keith sank wearily onto an empty bedroll close to the fire, shedding his cloak with a wince. He could feel a handful of aches and strains from his fight with Shiro making their presence known. He peeled off his gloves and pushed down his right sleeve, revealing the beginnings of a darkening bruise around his wrist. The purpling skin saturated the dull red-brown of the W burned there.

“Keith, are you listening? I’m asking why you screwed the plan and threw away our gold!”

“I told you that was only his share, right?” Hunk stepped between them, passing a steaming bowl into Keith’s grateful hands. His patient expression melted into a grimace. “Yikes, is that a bruise? I’ll get you some salve later.”

Keith slurped the stew eagerly, ignoring the angry burn against his tongue. Rabbit, he thought, brought to heavenly life by Hunk’s ingenious sense of seasoning. Sometimes he thought Hunk’s meals were the only reason they all survived those days lost in the desert, after they’d been separated from their battalion. This taste could rekindle a man’s will to live.

Lance accepted his own bowl with a glower. “That still doesn’t explain your grandstanding in front of the whole town. What was that, anyway? Who were you trying to show off for?”

“You met Shiro, didn’t you?” Pidge’s voice warbled from Keith’s left, where she was wrapped in her bedroll like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Her sleepy face squinted out from a circle of puffy wool blankets.

Keith gulped down the chunk of meat currently stuck in his throat. He should have figured she’d see through him.

Lance’s narrowed eyes darted between them. “Wait, Shiro? As in, Lord Shirogane?”

“What other Shiro is there?” Pidge wriggled free from her blankets and reached grabby hands out toward Hunk until he presented her with her own bowl. “We knew all the nobles would be at Garrison Hall for the meeting last night. It’d be weirder if Shiro wasn’t there.”

Keith received a brief reprieve as Allura and Coran returned to camp, carrying buckets sloshing with fresh water from the nearby creek. Allura had one bucket slung on each elbow, with another two dangling haphazardly from both hands, and she walked briskly as though they were no heavier than cloth streamers. Keith could never quite get used to seeing her superhuman strength, no matter how many times she demonstrated it. Her mysterious ability to alter the size and shape of her body was even harder to believe—he would’ve thought he was hallucinating, if his own knife didn’t do the same thing.

“Ah, I see our fearless leader has returned! You gave us all quite a scare.” Coran’s scolding was gentle as always as he set down his burdens and joined them near the fire.

“I’m sorry.” Keith sought Allura’s gaze. They’d made the plan together, so he couldn’t have blamed her if she was upset with him for breaking it. Thankfully she looked more concerned than angry. “I know that wasn’t how we wanted things to go. But if we wanted to make the sheriff look bad, I think we still accomplished our goal. He completely lost control of the situation.”

Allura’s blue eyes softened with her small smile. “Your little show _was_ rather amusing. I suspect Sendak’s pride will not soon recover from the blow.”

The vague knot of tension in Keith’s chest eased—he hadn’t let her down. He even managed a smirk as he watched Lance snatch a bowl out of Hunk’s hands, scrambling to present the stew to Allura, who accepted the offering with a bemused smile. Hunk shrugged and sat down across from Keith, murmuring a brief prayer of thanks before eating.

Pidge waited until they were all settled before she resumed her attack.

“You didn’t answer my question, Keith. Did you meet Shiro?”

 _I guess there’s no reason to deny it._ Keith drained the remaining drops of stew from his bowl, swiping a finger around the edge to lick off the last vestiges of flavor before he spoke.

“Yeah. He caught me on my way out.”

Pidge’s eyes narrowed. “And he let you go?”

“We fought. I took him down, so he let me leave.”

Lance choked on his stew. “You’re telling me _you_ beat Shiro?”

The skepticism on Lance’s face irritated Keith. Sure, Shiro was legendary in Nottingham as an unbeatable fighter, the finest the Garrison had ever produced, but it wasn’t like Keith had been twiddling his thumbs during the five years since they’d last met. He’d been able to hold his own against Shiro even before the Garrison kicked him out. Was it so hard to believe that he could beat Shiro now, after years of fighting for survival?

Pidge pressed on before he could retort. “Did he recognize you?”

The stew seemed to bubble in Keith’s stomach. For one heartbeat, when he was pinned against the wall, he’d thought Shiro knew who he was. But the way Shiro had looked at him… That was something new. Something different. He still didn’t know quite how to interpret it.

“…No. I don’t think so.”

The slant of Pidge’s brows looked like sympathy. Keith tilted his chin away, staring into his empty bowl.

It was better this way. He had failed Shiro—he didn’t have the right to ask for forgiveness, especially because he knew how easily Shiro would offer it. Shiro was far too important to too many people. Keith couldn’t risk inflicting him with the stigma that came from associating with an outlaw.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” Coran said. “Who is this Shiro?”

“Lord Takashi Shirogane,” Pidge explained. “He’s the head of the oldest noble family in Nottingham. Most of the farms between here and the town are on his land.”

“He was the only guy in Nottingham Keith didn’t hate,” Lance added.

“Ohh, I think I remember you talking about him! He used to be in the Garrison, right?” Hunk asked Lance. “And Keith followed him around like a stray puppy?”

Keith shot Lance a scathing glare.

“He’s a friend.” The description felt inadequate. “He helped me out when nobody else would’ve given me a second thought. He’s like a brother to me.”

But that didn’t feel right, either. Keith’s mind drifted back to that moment in the dancing light of the wall sconce, with Shiro’s shoulder pressing him into the wall and Shiro’s eyes dragging over his face. He wondered what would have happened if he didn’t break away. Would Shiro have kept him there, turned him in to Sendak? Or…?

“Do you think you can trust him?”

Keith blinked back to the present to find Allura watching him thoughtfully, her bowl of stew forgotten in her lap.

“Of course. He’s the most trustworthy person I know.”

Allura turned her questioning gaze to Pidge and Lance.

“He’s always been close with my family. He’s one of my brother’s best friends,” Pidge offered.

“I didn’t know him well, but everybody looked up to him. The guy was like a hero,” Lance said.

Allura nodded decisively. “In that case, I may have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my good friend and Robin Hood enthusiast Ashley, for sharing knowledge and inspiration, and to Lindsay, for proofreading and support.
> 
> We'll check back in with Shiro next time. :)
> 
> You can find me lurking on Twitter & retweeting art @SundaySEternal


	3. Chapter 3

The midafternoon sun beamed down from a cloudless sky, warming the back of Shiro’s neck as he raced toward home. The flocks of fluffy sheep scattered around the fields didn’t spare him a glance as his black mare thundered between them—just the landlord out for a ride again, nothing to see here.

The weathered stone pillars of the Shirogane homestead’s gate loomed up ahead, open and inviting, but Shiro nudged Black toward a familiar section of fencing to the right of the gate instead. Her perked-up ears told him she knew exactly what he had in mind and was in complete agreement with his recklessness. She picked up her pace, long legs eating up the soft ground, and honed in on the fence with single-minded intent. At the last possible second, a powerful thrust of the mare’s hind legs launched them from the ground, airborne for a few blissful moments before landing gracefully on the other side.

Shiro let out a low whoop, which Black acknowledged with a proud toss of her head. No other horse in the province could make that jump, and Shiro was sure Black knew it as well as he did. She had the right to preen a little.

When Shiro eased to a halt in the stable yard, Black danced in place for a moment, clearly reluctant to end their outing. Not that Shiro blamed her—it had been too long since they’d gone out for a proper ride. Black was too hot blooded to content herself with lazy days grazing the fields with the farm horses. She needed to stretch her legs, feel the wind in her face. Shiro could relate.

He slid to the ground, smoothing an apologetic hand down Black’s silky neck. “Sorry, girl. We should do this more often, huh?”

Rolo appeared on the path from the main house, an easy smile on his face. Most local nobles employed a small army of household helpers, but Shiro got by with only two: Rolo and Nyma, who had refused to leave with the others when Shiro released them upon his grandfather’s death. At first Shiro resisted accepting any help—he was a bachelor and ex-Garrison, he could take care of himself—but he’d quickly realized that being a lord involved so much more than just getting himself up and dressed every day. Besides, Shiro had grown up with Rolo and Nyma; the huge empty house would be lonely without them.

“Welcome back,” Rolo greeted once he was within easy earshot. “How was Matt?”

“Worried about Sam and Katie. Still driving the senior monks crazy with his inventions, though, so he’s doing well enough.” Shiro’s eyes zeroed in on the sealed white note Rolo was holding. “Is that what I think it is?”

Rolo flourished the paper with mock formality. “Your summons, Milord.”

Draping Black’s reins over his shoulder, Shiro accepted the note with a sigh, and broke the purple wax seal with his thumb. The letter contained a terse message requesting he visit the sheriff’s home “at his earliest convenience”—a polite way of saying, _get your butt over here now, or else_.

“Took him long enough,” Shiro murmured. Black gave the page one disinterested sniff before going back to nosing at Shiro’s hair.

It had been two days since Red’s heist—two days, and news from the Garrison remained eerily silent. Shiro had expected a public reprimand for the guards who lost the thief’s trail, corporal punishment for those who broke rank to gather the gold Red threw, and outright dismissal for the ones stationed at Garrison Hall who failed to prevent the robbery in the first place. Even the previous sheriff would have wanted to make a public statement after this fiasco, and Sendak was far more ruthless than Iverson had been. Shiro had left the Garrison when his grandfather passed away, but he still had connections within their ranks; even if Sendak merely kept his retribution private, Shiro would have heard about it.

Sendak’s lack of reaction toward the general populace was just as unsettling. So far, there was no word of increased taxes, not even a demand that the people return the stolen gold they had scooped off the streets. No statements read from the steps of Garrison Hall, no flyers posted on the doors of the businesses—nothing. It didn’t make sense.

“The guy who delivered it seemed pretty irked that you weren’t here,” Rolo commented. He adopted a casual slouch that would have been scolded by any other noble. “You might wanna head on over.”

Shiro grumbled under his breath. He’d been hoping to sneak a snack from the kitchen, but seeing as Rolo was the man in charge of said snacks, his chances looked pretty slim. Was it too unreasonable to hope Sendak might offer refreshments during his interrogation?

Black gave Shiro’s shoulder a rough nudge, jostling him out of his musings. Normally, he preferred to care for the mare himself; the ritual eased away his stress, and Black didn’t seem to mind that it took him twice as long since the accident. No time for a grooming session now, though. Shiro dug a sugar cube from his pocket as an apology, and planted a kiss on Black’s velvety nose.

“Sorry, beautiful. I’ll see you later.”

Shiro passed the reins to Rolo, taking solace in watching the smirk drop from the other man’s face. Rolo had been on the wrong end of the feisty mare’s teeth too many times. 

“Could you saddle Atlas for me when you’re done with her?” Shiro asked. It had taken years of patience and training before Black would allow even Rolo to touch her, and Shiro still wouldn’t trust her not to bite or kick Sendak’s men. She’d only ever taken to one other person, aside from Shiro.

Shiro smiled wryly to himself; somehow his thoughts kept turning back to Keith, ever since the night of the robbery. Drudging up that old grudge would not make for an easy conversation with the sheriff.

“You think you’ll be back for dinner?” Rolo was asking. “I was gonna make shepherd’s pie.”

_Thank you, God, for this mercy_. Shiro clapped Rolo gratefully on the shoulder. “I’ll be here, even if I have to knock Sendak out first.”

With shepherd’s pie on the line, he was only half joking.

 

Forty minutes later found Shiro in front of the sheriff’s residence, cleaned up and dressed in a more formal ensemble of mostly black, with highlights of white and gray in his vest and jacket. He’d even combed back his obstinate hair, trying to look as noble and impressive as possible. This meeting could easily turn into a battle, and Shiro was not above flaunting his lordly status when it helped him achieve his ends.

A butler with a narrow face, lips permanently downturned at the corners, met Shiro at the door. “Lord Shirogane. The sheriff will see you in his study.”

Shiro trailed the man up a gently creaking flight of stairs and down a hall lined with paintings, all displaying sweeping depictions of battle. He was far from squeamish, but images of wounded soldiers with their guts spilling out were not Shiro’s idea of tasteful decorating—and the scenes seemed to grow grislier the further he went. He was almost relieved to see Sendak waiting outside the study door, if only because it gave him an excuse to stop looking.

“Lord Shirogane.” Sendak inclined his head, both a greeting and a dismissal for Shiro’s reticent guide. “Thank you for coming.”

The words held a hint of irony—they both knew he’d kept Sendak waiting. Shiro outranked the sheriff enough to warrant pretensions of humility, but Sendak didn’t pretend to think highly of him. At least the feeling was mutual. It was hard to respect a man who had condemned two of Shiro’s closest friends.

But Shiro showed none of these venomous thoughts on his face, presenting his best diplomatic smile instead. It was too late for Keith, but there was still a chance he could help Sam Holt, if he kept himself in line. Shiro would sacrifice any number of fake smiles if it meant bringing Sam back to his family.

Shiro hadn’t visited the sheriff’s residence since Sendak took over the post six years ago. The wood-paneled walls of the private study were now almost entirely obscured by mementos of Sendak’s days on the battlefield. Myriad weapons of deadly shapes and sizes assaulted Shiro’s vision, along with an oppressive array of helmets and other small pieces representing the enemies Sendak had conquered in the king’s name. Shiro couldn’t imagine being able to relax while surrounded by so many sharp objects; he felt like he might impale himself if he walked too carelessly. He kept his elbow tucked close to his side as he made his way toward the pair of chairs holding vigil in front of the roaring fireplace. It was still early autumn, not yet cool enough to justify using so much firewood during the day.

_Nice to know he’s putting our tax money to good use._

The thought vanished when one of the blades on display caught Shiro’s eye, almost making him freeze mid-step—a dark metal dagger, glinting almost purple in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of dagger that transformed to a curved blade without warning in the heat of combat. Shiro would have recognized that design anywhere.

He was tempted to ask Sendak where he got it, but that could lead to unwanted questions. Instead, Shiro shifted his eyes away, obediently sitting in the chair Sendak indicated. His seat afforded a full view of the informal dining table behind Sendak’s chair, and an impressive curio cabinet standing against the back wall of the room, next to an open window. Several items adorned with gold and jewels glinted behind the cabinet’s glass doors—rewards received from the king, no doubt. The setup was clearly designed to make an impression.

Sendak settled casually in the chair opposite Shiro, with the cabinet looming like a sentry over his left shoulder. “Let us get to business. It has come to my attention that you did not leave Garrison Hall with your peers two nights ago. One of my men reported seeing you on the balcony during the pursuit.”

Shiro was prepared for this—with his bulk and his white hair, he was hardly inconspicuous. He figured somebody must have seen him. “That’s correct.”

“Did you happen to see the man who robbed the treasury?”

“Briefly, yes.”

Sendak leaned forward, like a shark scenting blood. “And you didn’t see fit to stop him?”

“I tried to.” Shiro slid one finger under the high collar of his shirt, revealing the shallow pink scar the thief’s blade had left on his throat. Rolo said the wound would heal completely, with a little more time. “He overpowered me.”

“Did he really?” Sendak’s eye narrowed.

Shiro shifted his right shoulder, feigning chagrin. “I’m not the fighter I used to be.”

Sendak’s silence lasted a beat too long, while his gaze raked like hot coals over Shiro’s missing arm. “I see.”

Shiro wanted to laugh—of course the one person he actually _wanted_ to underestimate him was the one person he couldn’t fool. At least the ring of truth was on his side, this time; Red really had pinned him down.

And this was _not_ the time to get lost in that particular memory, however tempting it may be.

“I don’t suppose you saw anything that could help us identify the criminal?” Sendak asked.

Shiro pushed aside a mental image of the curved scar on Red’s cheek. “No. He wore a mask.”

“Naturally.” Sendak tapped one finger on the arm of his chair, the only sign of his mounting impatience.

_But I do know who ate the rest of your chocolate strawberries,_ Shiro almost offered. _That was me._

He had a feeling Sendak wouldn’t see the humor.

“One thing is clear.” Sendak’s tone turned decisive. “This man and his accomplices are no outsiders. They knew this town well enough to shake my men.”

“It does seem that way.” Shiro didn’t need to fake his frustration—after he’d spent so much of the town hall meeting convincing Sendak the thieves weren’t from Nottingham, it really was inconsiderate of Red to immediately prove him wrong.

“It changes little,” Sendak said. “They are outside the city, now. And when they return, we will catch them.” He finally broke Shiro’s gaze, staring instead into the orange-gold flames. “You’ve heard what the people are calling him?”

Shiro nodded slowly. He’d hoped those particular whispers wouldn’t reach Sendak’s ears, but he supposed he should’ve known better. Two little words, enough to give any sheriff of Nottingham nightmares:

“Robin Hood.”

That _did_ make things complicated. It was no more than a popular local legend, fuel for the fire of children’s games, but it could easily grow into something worse. If Sendak handled this situation carelessly, he risked falling into the hapless villain’s role of the sheriff in the story. There were too many ways this could go wrong, on both sides.

“I will catch them,” Sendak repeated, barely audible over the crackling logs. His interrogation completed, he settled back into his chair, leaning his elbow on the armrest. “Now, Lord Shirogane, there is another matter we must discuss. To clear the air, so to speak.”

The abrupt change in his demeanor caught Shiro off guard. “Oh?”

“It is no secret that we’ve never seen eye to eye.”

_That’s one way to put it._ Shiro smoothed his expression and kept his voice even. “You arrested an innocent man. Sam Holt is no traitor.”

Sendak ignored the bait. “Our differences started long before I arrested the miller. You’ve resented me ever since that young freeman’s trial.”

For an instant, Shiro saw Keith’s tearstained cheeks, the red rims of his eyes as he repeated the same two words of apology without explanation. The angry orange of the W brand before it seared into Keith’s skin. Keith’s lips twisted in a snarl as he clenched his teeth against the scream threatening to burst from his throat. And Sendak, watching impassively through his single eye as he banished Keith from Nottingham, to be killed on sight if he dared to return.

_“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Shiro.”_

Shiro blinked away the red staining his vision. Yes, resentment was putting it mildly. But for all Shiro’s supposed power and influence, he had been unable to explain away the lifeless body of the Garrison officer, the damning shape of Keith’s knife protruding from the corpse’s chest, or the sticky stain of blood on Keith’s hands and clothes. Shiro knew beyond doubt that Keith would never kill without cause, but he’d been unable to prove it without Keith’s help. How could he expect Sendak to pardon someone who wouldn’t speak to defend himself?

“You upheld the law,” Shiro hedged.

“And yet you still begrudge me, even now.”

The truth was that Sendak had been lenient. The sheriff could have easily ruled for execution, with Keith refusing to make a statement. But all the logic in the world didn’t change the fact that Sendak had condemned one of the people Shiro loved most, and cast that person out of Shiro’s life forever. Shiro would never forgive him for it.

Yet he couldn’t let any of these feelings show. If he allowed Sendak to goad him, he’d already lost. _Hold it together, Shirogane. Patience yields focus._

“He was a good friend,” Shiro admitted. “I’ll always regret losing him. But you did what you had to do, under the circumstances.”

Sendak accepted the concession with a brief nod. If he noticed the rage seething just beneath Shiro’s mask of stoicism, he chose to ignore it.

“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” Sendak replied. “But I hope we can set the past aside, for the good of Nottingham.”

_Oh,_ this _should be interesting._

Shiro’s lips parted to form a suitably generic reply, when all coherent thought evaporated from his mind—a figure had just appeared in the open window beyond Sendak’s shoulder.

For one wistful heartbeat, Shiro expected to see Keith, beckoning with a playful tilt of his head. But this was the second floor of the sheriff’s mansion, and instead of Keith’s windblown hair and devious grin, Shiro saw a cloth mask and a bold red hood that were all too familiar.

_This can’t be happening._

He’d spent more time than he cared to admit daydreaming his reunion with Red. Usually, it happened in the evening, with a rosy blush of sunset through the windows of a lonely room in Shiro’s home—preferably one with a nice, plush carpet that wouldn’t be painful to fall on. They’d exchange blows, Shiro would ply a yield from Red’s lips, and then he’d offer some wine as a peace offering. Though, to be honest, the versions where Red pinned him down again weren’t half bad, either. Shiro was open to adaptation, as long as it still ended with the wine.

Sendak’s study in broad daylight, though? That was just a smidge outside his expectations.

Shiro settled his weight against the plush armrest, leaned his jaw against his fist, and locked his eyes on Sendak’s expectant face.

“I’m listening,” he prompted. If he ignored Red hard enough, maybe the thief would disappear.

He only just kept himself from twitching when a lean scarlet shape tiptoed into his peripheral. Red wiggled his hand in a little wave, catching Shiro’s eye, before placing a single, deliberate finger against the lips hidden beneath his bandanna. Shiro’s breath stuttered in his lungs—the gesture was more adorable than it had any right to be. How was this fair?

“You and I have more in common than you might think,” Sendak began. He brushed thick fingers against his left forearm, held in useless rigor at his side. “It’s been seven years now since I lost the use of my arm. I still remember the moment like it was branded into my mind.”

Shiro wasn’t uninterested in hearing the story, but Red made listening impossible. Before Sendak strung three words together, the thief had divested the cabinet of its silver lock and popped open the glass door. He drew a jeweled mace from one of the shelves and made a show of examining the weapon, holding it up to the light like a master appraiser.

“The doctors said it might heal someday, but I knew the moment I woke up,” Sendak’s voice rumbled in a soft growl. “This arm is as dead as the eye I lost.”

With an appreciative nod, Red wrapped the mace in cloth and stuffed it into a leather sack on the table behind him.

_So glad it meets your standards._

The longer Sendak wandered the labyrinth of his memory, the better. Shiro snagged desperately at the opening. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to your eye?” 

While Sendak answered—something about a stray foot soldier in a careless moment—Red extracted a golden dagger with rubies embedded in its hilt. He casually flipped the weapon from hand to hand, testing its weight, and then held it out as though requesting Shiro’s opinion.

Shiro desperately wanted to slap his palm over his face, but Sendak would probably take that the wrong way. Luckily, Sendak’s gaze was still lowered. Shiro took the opportunity to roll his eyes at Red.

With a dismissive shrug, as if to say Shiro was no help at all, Red began wrapping the knife in cloth.

“You never saw battle, but I sense you can understand,” Sendak was saying. His single eye snapped up to capture Shiro’s. “The world sees us both as broken soldiers.”

Something in Shiro’s chest twisted unpleasantly at the words. He filed it away for future examination.

“You were a colonel in the Border Wars, right?” Shiro was still a child when the Border Wars ended, but he remembered Iverson mentioning as much when Sendak took office.

“Yes.” Sendak’s fingers tightened around his limp wrist. His gaze left Shiro’s, staring far away across time and kingdoms. “I led the first regiment under Prince Zarkon.”

Prince Zarkon, husband to the king’s late sister, Honerva, and King Alfor’s most trusted general. Alfor had shocked the kingdom by leaving Zarkon behind as regent, instead of employing his skills in the crusades. Some thought Alfor was giving Zarkon time to mourn his wife’s untimely death, but Shiro never quite bought it. Stranger still was the fact that Zarkon remained regent five years later, even though the king’s daughter was now of age to claim her throne.

And then there was Sendak’s presence here, when by rights he should be advising his lord in the capital. There might be a hint in that, if Shiro could rustle it out.

“I’ve never had the honor of meeting Prince Zarkon,” Shiro commented. “What kind of man is he?”

“He is a capable leader, decisive in ways King Alfor is not. Once he has decided on a course, he follows it relentlessly, stopping only for victory or death.”

Red seemed to be listening, too; ever since Sendak first mentioned Zarkon, the thief had focused more on the conversation than the treasure in front of him. His latest find—a porcelain plate bearing the Gisborne crest, a violet lion with twisted saber fangs—twirled idly on his finger like a saucer-shaped top. An ironic choice, seeing as Zarkon had been Lord of Gisborne before his marriage. The plate must have been a personal gift.

Just thinking about the crash it would make if it fell made Shiro’s soul shudder. What did Red need with a plate, anyway? Was he planning to host a dinner party in his den of thieves?

“No one can best him, across the battlefield or in single combat,” Sendak continued. “I was there when he cleaved the Marmora elder’s head from his shoulders.”

The plate tumbled from Red’s finger.

Shiro’s vision tunneled in swirls of white and violet. The plate was his lifespan, hurtling toward the floor at a speed that would smash him to jagged pieces.

Until Red’s boot shot out, catching it on his toe with a stupid degree of delicacy. A graceful flick of his ankle launched the plate back up in a leisurely spin that ended safely at his half-gloved hand. The move was elegant enough to make Shiro’s throat go dry. Shiro would have believed Red staged the whole thing, if not for the little sag of relief that slouched the man’s shoulders.

Red turned his head enough to meet Shiro’s eyes. His mask and bandanna hid his expression, but somehow he managed to look just as horrified as Shiro felt.

Only then did Shiro realize the strangled yelp he’d heard when the plate fell had come from his own throat.

Shiro forced a cough, thumping his fist against his chest. Sendak’s expression of utter confusion should have been hilarious, really. It was all a matter of perspective.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” he wheezed through a fit of fake coughs, “guess my throat’s a little parched. I’ve been out since lunch.”

At least a full minute ticked by while Sendak stared silently. Shiro could practically see the rusted cogs in the sheriff’s mind stuttering back into motion.

Over Sendak’s shoulder, Red methodically wound the cursed plate in cloth and tucked it away with his other treasures, before proceeding to pull out the rest of the dinner set.

_You’re_ taking _them!?_

“…Where are my manners,” Sendak said. He managed to convey disdain in every line of his body as he rose from his chair, already looking toward a low oak cabinet to his right. “Would you care for some sherry?”

Before the sheriff finished taking a single step, Red closed the curio and dove under the dining table. It would have been impressive, if the leather sack of loot didn’t remain open and obvious on the table’s polished surface.

_Smooth, Red. Real smooth._

“N-no, thank you! I’m not really a sherry man, to be honest.”

The furrow in Sendak’s brow grew deep as a castle moat. “Perhaps something stronger, then?”

Time slowed to the pace of a pathetic snail as his neck turned toward the curio cabinet, and the blatant evidence of an ongoing robbery.

“On second thought, I’d love some sherry!” Shiro exclaimed. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck, making his shoulders itch. It was too damn warm for that fire. “I want to know what kind of sherry a man like you would drink.”

He almost sighed in relief when Sendak’s face turned back toward him, just enough to leave the table firmly in the sheriff’s blind spot. Thank God for the enemy soldier who ruined Sendak’s right eye.

Sendak stared at Shiro as though he’d started yodeling in French. “There’s no need to force yourself.”

“Please, I _insist_ on trying that sherry!” Shiro presented his most charming smile, the one that always got him out of punishment duty in his Garrison days. “I hope the offer’s _still on the table_.”

A swift pair of hands snatched the leather sack from the tabletop.

Shiro could pinpoint the moment when Sendak decided it wasn’t worth it. The man’s gargoyle face achieved groundbreaking levels of stoniness as he made his way to the side cabinet, keeping his good eye fixed on Shiro.

While Sendak poured, Red’s hooded head popped up over the edge of the table. Shiro meant to send the thief a stern glare, but when their gazes met, a wave of giddy laughter threatened to spill from his throat. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to hold it back, but he couldn’t contain a wobbly smile. The entire situation was just so _ridiculous_. _How_ had Sendak not found them out?

Red’s eyes seemed to be smiling, too. He returned a decidedly sheepish shrug before ducking down again.

Sendak handed the glass to Shiro before returning to the safety of his own chair. The immediate crisis had passed, but a buzz of adrenaline and hysteria continued to tingle through Shiro’s veins. It took all his restraint to keep his face neutral.

Shiro took a slow sip of sherry, letting the taste fizz on his tongue before he swallowed. He needed to bring this farce to an end before he completely lost it.

Besides, he had a shepherd’s pie to get home to.

“I’m sorry I interrupted you earlier, but I get the feeling you didn’t call me here to trade war stories. Obviously you’d like my help with something.”

It would’ve been too direct, if he were dealing with another noble, but he thought a military man like Sendak might prefer a little bluntness.

Sure enough, Sendak’s bulky shoulders actually relaxed a bit.

“You are different from the other nobles,” he said. “You actually care about these people, and they respect you, in turn. If the people believe you support me, they may be more… amenable.”

_Aha, I thought it might be something like that._

“You’re taking away money they need to survive. If I do the same, they’ll turn on me, too.”

“I must present the expected tax quota to Nottingham Castle two days from now. Failure to do so will bring… consequences. Consequences neither of us want.” Sendak shrugged. “The regent will have his gold, one way, or another.”

While they spoke, Red had returned the silver lock to the cabinet door, as though it had never been opened. He kept his hooded profile tilted in Sendak’s direction while he tightened the strings of his sack. Still listening closely, then. His presence was like a warm hand at Shiro’s back, holding him up.

“If you take the money by force, the people _will_ fight you,” Shiro promised. “Bend a branch too far, and it’ll snap. You’ll have a rebellion on your hands.”

“Whatever you may think of my methods, I’d rather avoid a bloodbath. There’s not enough profit in it. But, I have my orders. At first light tomorrow, my men will go door to door to collect the missing sum, using any means necessary.” Sendak’s eye narrowed, glinting yellow in the early evening sunlight. “Unless you can offer an alternative.”

Red’s body shifted into a loose, battle-ready stance Shiro recognized from two nights past. But there was no mischief in his movements this time; his dagger appeared in his hand, his grip light and sure, and his eyes burned into the back of Sendak’s head. His playful energy from moments before sharpened into a deadly arrow’s point, pulled taut and ready to fire.

A fluttery tendril of warmth spread through Shiro’s chest, headier than the alcohol he was drinking. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to know someone had his back, no questions asked. Sure, the person in question was a criminal with questionable fashion sense, but that didn’t make Shiro appreciate it any less.

He straightened in his chair, relaxing his shoulders and raising his chin, projecting the blue-blooded aristocrat with every fiber of his being. He was _Lord Takashi Shirogane_. Thunder and lightning quelled at his whim.

“How about this. I’ll cover the treasury losses myself. All of it.” He saw Red’s double-take in the corner of his eye; the thief’s eyes were wide behind his mask. “I’ll even throw in a little extra for your trouble, seeing as I’m the one who failed to stop the robbery.”

Calculations spun rapidly in Shiro’s head. He could afford this, if he cut down on oil and firewood this winter, among some other nonessentials. If he closed off most of the house, Nyma could make it work. He was only one man, after all, with only two attendants; he didn’t need to use more than three or four rooms, anyway. It wasn’t as though he’d been throwing lavish evening parties every week, even before he lost his arm.

The thought of cutting out sugar and other expensive food supplies bled deeper, but many goods had been scarce because of the war. He could survive without sweets for a season.

Probably.

“A generous offer.” Sendak frowned, clearly suspicious. Shiro couldn’t blame him. “And in return?”

“Two things.” Shiro held up two fingers in turn as he spoke. “One: you won’t place any further tax burden on Nottingham this winter. Keep chasing the thief if you want, but consider the people blameless in this incident. Two: release Sam Holt.”

Sendak’s lip twisted. “Holt is a convicted criminal—”

“On false grounds,” Shiro interrupted. An edge of steel coated his words. “I believe in the law, but only when it’s enforced justly. Sam Holt may be an unconventional thinker, but he’s always been loyal to the crown. If you want my help, you’ll clear his charges and have him released.”

He could feel the heat of Red’s stare on his own face, now, but he didn’t dare break eye contact with Sendak. 

The sheriff grimaced as though he had tasted something unpleasant. “Holt’s fate was out of my hands the moment I delivered him to Nottingham Castle. An order for his release would have to come directly from the regent.”

“Then I suggest you make that happen.” Shiro drained the rest of his glass in a leisurely swallow and placed it on a side table, reflecting rainbow patterns of sunset light across the wood floor. “You give me Holt, and I’ll pretend to be your friend as much as you want. I’ll even smile at you in public without twitching. Plus, your treasury can count on further expressions of my gratitude, if those thieves strike again.”

“The miller is worth so much to you?”

The tiniest twinge of misgivings plucked a note in Shiro’s chest. It might not be wise to reveal how far he was willing to go for Sam—for anyone he cared about. But, nothing risked, nothing gained.

“You’ve already taken one friend away from me, Sendak. I’d prefer not to lose any more.”

Sendak rubbed his arm, thinking. “The regent may be more lenient if the request is a personal appeal from a loyal vassal. I will begin the proceedings on my next visit. When Prince Zarkon hears of your… generosity… I believe he will approve.”

“Let’s both hope he does.” Shiro let his lips curve upwards, a small smile to hide the violent drumroll of hope in his heart. “Your men may collect the payment in two days, right before you leave. Send Iverson, and Griffin. I won’t entrust it to anyone else.”

Sendak cocked a brow at the personnel request, but he didn’t quibble. “As you wish.”

At Sendak’s acquiescence, Red finally tucked the dagger back into the folds of his scarlet cloak. He carried his leather sack to the window, where Shiro was startled to see a second hooded figure, cloaked and masked in blue. The newcomer’s bulk filled the window frame, reaching two massive arms inside to accept the bag from Red. It looked for all the world like Blue wasn’t holding onto anything—either they had something to stand on, outside, or they really were tall enough to reach into a second floor window. Both seemed improbable.

Just when Shiro thought the situation couldn’t get any stranger, Blue’s broad form seemed to _shrink_ before his eyes, vanishing beneath the windowsill in the time it took to blink.

_So, that just happened?_ Shiro tossed a suspicious glance at his empty glass; what exactly was in that sherry?

Laughter danced in Red’s eyes as he hopped onto the windowsill. He offered Shiro another jaunty two-fingered salute before he too dropped out of sight.

Shiro’s stomach plummeted with him.

“ _Well_ , if that’s all settled, you’ll have to excuse me.” Shiro shot to his feet, barely allowing Sendak time to stand before moving toward the exit. “I have shepherd’s pie waiting for me at home.”

“Of course. I apologize for keeping you.” Sendak opened the study door, where his butler materialized as if out of the floating dust particles. Shiro would have been startled if he wasn’t in such a hurry. “Thank you for your time, Lord Shirogane.”

Shiro managed a polite nod and took his leave.

The butler escorted him with glacial steps. By the time Shiro was outside, nearly bouncing in place while a groom fetched Atlas, there was no sign of Red and his shrinking companion. Shiro trotted around the mansion in a wide circle, scanning the landscaping for stray hints of red or blue, but he saw nothing beyond the amber hues of early autumn leaves.

“Nice seeing you, too,” he muttered to the empty breeze. 

Honestly, after everything he’d put Shiro through, the _least_ Red could do was stick around to say hello. Was a simple ‘thank you’ too much to ask?

With a heavy sigh, Shiro reined Atlas back toward home.

With his luck, the pie would be cold by now, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This chapter turned into a monster, so I ended up splitting it into two parts. Shiro's eventful day continues next time.
> 
> And just in case anyone is worried, the "Marmora elder" Sendak mentioned is Kolivan's predecessor, not Kolivan. Kolivan is alive and well.
> 
> You can find me lurking on Twitter & retweeting art @SundaySEternal


	4. Chapter 4

Keith crept down the narrow hall of the Shirogane mansion, at home in the encompassing darkness. The other nobles he’d robbed tended to leave sconces burning deep into the evening, even in parts of their homes which remained empty, but Shiro was too practical to do that here. It would have made it harder for the average thief to sneak around without stubbing his toe on an intrusive corner, but Keith worked better in the dark. It also didn’t hurt that he’d visited the place plenty of times during his days with the Garrison.

At half past eight, the mansion was locked down for the evening, with Nyma and Rolo already returned to their own home on the property. The only sign of human occupation was the dancing flame of the candle Shiro carried with him, illuminating his passage down the hall. Keith latched onto the guiding light, drawn like a moth to the flickering as he chased the beacon into the library.

He paused just outside the doorway, lingering in the protective embrace of the shadows. Shiro took one longing look at the room’s cozy little fireplace before turning instead to a lantern on a central table. The liquid balm of oil light soon seeped like the tide across the faded Persian rug, beckoning just beyond the toes of Keith’s hesitant boots.

Keith had never felt truly comfortable here. At first, while he was still learning that the friendship Shiro offered wasn’t some kind of trap, he’d felt tested by the finery. The house was full of marble busts, sparkling candelabras, and fancy tea sets, the kind of wealth a lowly street thief like him would hardly dare dream of. His hands always remained firmly in his pockets, shoulders hunched, too tense to even look at the valuable objects lest anyone think he planned to steal them. No matter how thoroughly he scrubbed the soles of his worn boots before coming inside, he’d still worried his footsteps must be leaving some invisible taint on the polished floors.

And surrounded by this haven of ancient aristocracy had been Shiro’s grandfather, with his broad shoulders, stately posture, and thick, stern brows, striding from room to room with a confidence born from birthright. The venerable lord had only ever held Keith to the same strict standards he applied to everyone else, himself included. He’d never been cruel, not even disdainful like the other nobles, but Keith always tread carefully in his presence, terrified that the slightest misstep would remind him how unworthy Keith was of his grandson’s company.

Then Shiro’s grandfather passed away, and Shiro had returned to this house as its new master. Keith vividly remembered sitting on this same rug in front of the library’s fireplace after the funeral, watching the patterns of light across Shiro’s face as he stared blankly into the flames. So many aspects of Shiro’s life were beyond Keith’s comprehension, but grief was something he knew intimately. He’d leaned closer, nudging his shoulder against Shiro’s arm, just a soft reminder that Shiro wasn’t alone. Before he knew it, Shiro’s full weight sagged against him, until only Keith’s strength kept them upright. He’d felt rather than heard the tiny sob that shuddered from deep in Shiro’s chest.

Maybe that was why the library felt more welcoming than the rest of the empty house; it was the place where Keith had seen Shiro at his most vulnerable. In those painful, precious moments, he’d finally felt like he could be Shiro’s strength, just like Shiro was for him.

Now Shiro stood at the edge of the carpet, bare toes safely tucked back from the icy floor while he perused the dark wood shelves lining the walls. He must’ve misplaced his house slippers again. A fond smile tugged at Keith’s lips—Shiro was a portrait of classic noble perfection in Sendak’s study earlier, but at home, where he felt comfortable, he shed that discipline like the discarded clothes constantly littering the floor of his room. In the time since Keith last saw him, he’d stripped his formal outfit down to only his trousers and a black dress shirt, with the right sleeve tied off in a careless knot. The top few buttons of the shirt were undone, letting the honeyed light caress the line of his throat and the slope of his collar bones. White bangs tumbled onto his forehead in an artless mess, his careful combing ruined by dragging fingers through his hair too many times. Not surprising, considering Nyma probably hadn’t released him from dinner until they had a foolproof budget to tackle the reckless promise he’d made this afternoon.

Which reminded Keith why he was here. He ghosted across the threshold, stilling his breath as he tiptoed toward Shiro’s broad back. Shiro’s senses had always been inhumanly sharp, but Keith had spent five years perfecting his stealth. He knew how to move in perfect silence, taking care not to cast any telltale shadows when he stepped into the light. Shiro’s shoulders remained loose, square chin held between his finger and thumb as he scanned the colorful spines of the books lining the shelves. Soon Keith stood poised directly behind him, eyes level with the back of Shiro’s neck.

His lips parted in a triumphant grin as he pounced.

Shiro’s sidestep was flawlessly timed. He slipped to the right, shifting counterclockwise to snatch Keith’s grasping hand from the empty air. Only his iron grip, twisting the captured arm behind Keith’s back, kept Keith from tumbling headfirst into the shelf.

He stepped close behind Keith immediately, pushing forward until the lowest shelf jabbed into Keith’s stomach. Keith’s cheek squished against a collection of volumes about the Far East while Shiro’s chest pressed heavy against his back. His free hand flailed desperately, but he couldn’t get any leverage; the weight holding him in place didn’t budge.

So much for perfect stealth.

Shiro’s face loomed closer until his lips brushed the shell of Keith’s ear, enunciating slowly: “Got you.”

A shiver zipped down Keith’s spine. He’d never heard Shiro’s voice like that, and definitely not from so close. It had a hint of huskiness to it, like when he first woke up in the morning, but with none of the laziness.

“You,” Shiro said matter-of-factly, “are a _menace_.”

“I just didn’t want you getting bored.” Keith was proud of how steady his voice came out. “You should be thanking me.”

Shiro’s laugh huffed warm against Keith’s skin. “Right. Thanks for taking years off my life.”

“You have to admit I made things more interesting.”

“No arguing with that,” Shiro murmured.

Keith wriggled, but Shiro’s bulk remained immovable. “You gonna let me go any time soon?”

“That depends.” Shiro tilted his face into Keith’s line of sight, lips curved in a smirk dripping with self-satisfaction. “Are you going to yield?”

“This wasn’t even a fight. It doesn’t count.”

“Oh, I think it does. You’re the one who sneak attacked me, remember?”

 _And it should have worked_. Keith felt his own mouth twist into a pout. He hadn’t lost a fight since he first met Allura, and he’d evened their score in the end. And to lose so quickly, without even getting a hit in? Impossible, even if his opponent was Shiro. If any of his friends found out, he’d never live down the shame.

Yet a tiny inner voice reminded him it was even more impossible for Shiro to lose to the same opponent twice. Keith dealt with plenty of stubborn people on a daily basis, but he had yet to meet a sorer loser than Shiro. The man held grudges, and he never failed to collect.

Victory smoldered in Shiro’s gray eyes. He leaned in closer, bringing his lips back to Keith’s ear. “ _Yield_.”

Keith felt heat crawling up his neck. He wanted to keep struggling, but his knees had gone wobbly. He wasn’t even sure he could stand up straight on his own, let alone break out of Shiro’s expert hold.

“Fine,” he mumbled.

“Hm? What was that?”

“I yield,” Keith snapped.

Laughter rumbled from Shiro’s chest as he stepped away. Keith leaned his back against the bookshelf, gingerly rubbing his strained shoulder. Cool air seeped in past the seams of his cloak, but his ears still felt uncomfortably hot.

“You’re such a cheat,” he grumbled.

Shiro shrugged, offering a crooked grin. “A cheap win is still a win.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hold back an answering smile. Shiro’s smugness was as irresistible as it was infuriating. “I want another rematch.”

“Anytime.” The grin melted into something more intimate. “It’s good to see you, Red.”

Keith ignored the confused fluttering in his stomach, concealing it behind a smirk of his own. “I hear they’re calling me Robin Hood.”

Shiro answered with an ignoble snort. He stepped closer and grasped the scarlet hood at Keith’s shoulders. “Pretty sure they mean Red Riding Hood.”

He tugged the hood up and over Keith’s eyes, laughing when Keith growled and batted his hand away.

“What brings you here, Red?” His tone turned teasing. “Did you come to steal from me, too?”

Keith’s brows came together under his mask—his scuffle with Shiro had completely distracted him from his goal. He threw down his hood and jabbed a finger at Shiro’s chest.

“I can’t believe you’re paying back what I stole! What were you thinking?”

Shiro had the gall to look amused. He spoke soothingly, hand raised in a placating manner.

“I had to show Sendak I was serious. He’ll be easier to handle if he’s in my debt.”

“I know how much money I took. You’re rich, but you’re not _that_ rich.”

Shiro’s face split into a delighted grin, as though Keith had just surprised him with a chocolate cake. “Aw, are you _worried_ about me? You’re sweet.”

Keith’s mouth opened and closed for a moment, like a fish flailing on the riverbank. He almost wanted to pull his hood back up—he could feel heat flooding his cheeks again.

“You should worry about _yourself_ a little more!” He raked both hands through his hair, letting his frustration out in another growl. He should have expected this. Shiro could be selfish when he had to be—he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted—but when it came to protecting the people he loved, he had a blind spot as wide as a kingdom. Of _course_ he’d have no qualms about putting himself at risk, if it got the job done. He was always looking out for people, but somehow he never saw himself as part of that equation. “You have so many people counting on you. What are they supposed to do if something happens to you?”

This was just like that last horrible day at the Garrison, knowing Shiro would throw away everything for him, if Keith had let him. Even now, if he took off the mask, revealed himself, he didn’t doubt Shiro would be ready to do it all over again. That was just the kind of person Shiro was.

And just like back then, Keith was the person putting Shiro at risk.

He crossed his arms, scowling at Shiro’s feet. “…I didn’t steal from Sendak just to cause trouble for you.”

As an apology, it was lacking, but it was all he had.

The grin faded from Shiro’s lips. He leaned into Keith’s space, trying to catch his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was painfully gentle.

“Hey. It’s not your fault.”

Was he _serious_? Keith’s glare flashed back to Shiro’s face. “ _How_ is this not my fault? I’m the one who robbed him in the first place!”

Endless patience shone in Shiro’s gray eyes. “I had plenty of chances to stop you that night, and again today. But I didn’t. That was my choice.” He tilted his head, offering a shy smile. “I guess that makes me your accomplice?”

Keith could only stare, wide-eyed, heart thumping heavily. Shiro looked so damn _hopeful_ , as though being Keith’s partner in crime was the greatest honor he could achieve. It was completely unfair—but then, everything about Shiro was a little unfair. He’d always been that way. Keith still didn’t know what happened when Shiro lost his arm, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Shiro had cheated Death itself.

Keith ducked his head and let out a small, breathless laugh. He’d learned years ago that trying to resist this man was pointless.

“Why are you so…”

“Charming?” Shiro suggested. A glimmer of that smug smirk returned to his eyes.

Keith scoffed. “ _Dumb_.” But he couldn’t help smiling back.

Shiro brushed gently past Keith, shuffling along the shelf until his questing fingers found a cabinet door near the floor. “Hey, I’m not the guy who left his loot bag in plain sight on Sendak’s table.”

“That was… not my best moment,” Keith admitted, wincing.

“Also not the guy who played with a breakable plate and almost dropped it.” Shiro’s hand emerged from the cabinet with a dusty bottle of wine.

“I saved it, didn’t I?” Keith watched as Shiro stuck the bottle between his knees to pry out the cork. “What are you doing?”

“I’m thirsty.”

Shiro poured the wine liberally into a pair of glasses that Keith could’ve sworn weren’t there a second ago. When both glasses were filled with deep maroon liquid, he set down the bottle and grasped one of the thin stems, holding the glass out toward Keith.

“Have a drink with me?” he prompted when Keith made no move to accept.

The wheels of Keith’s brain stuttered, like a carriage trundling over bumpy cobblestone. Nothing about this visit was going the way he’d planned. He thought he knew Shiro better than he knew anyone, but the other man kept speaking and acting in ways he didn’t know how to process. There was a note of intention in Shiro’s teasing that had never been there before, and an intensity in his eyes that wasn’t there five years ago—at least not when he’d looked at Keith.

Keith moved to Shiro’s side and took the glass cautiously, giving the wine an experimental swirl, before raising it to his lips for a tentative swallow. The liquid was surprisingly sweet on his tongue, and went down smooth, with only a slight, pleasant burn. When he went for a second sip, he saw Shiro relax.

“Good, right?” Shiro took a drink from his own glass. “Ryner has the best vineyard in the province.”

Keith recognized the name—one of Shiro’s tenants, who lived on the border of Sherwood. Pidge seemed to admire the woman, which said a lot. He hummed appreciatively into his glass.

They drank in silence for several moments, Keith stealing furtive glances at Shiro’s profile. The sunrise shine of the lantern illuminated the thick scar across his nose, a stark reminder of just how much of his life Keith didn’t know. Those five years away formed a black, yawning hole in the back of Keith’s mind, threatening to swallow him up if he stared too deeply. There was too much he yearned to know, so much he was afraid to ask.

“So, you… live alone?” Keith tried to sound casual, but he knew he didn’t quite pull it off—he could tell as much from the wry quirk of Shiro’s eyebrows.

“I do. My assistants are here during the day, but they have their own cottage.”

Keith abandoned tact in favor of the direct approach.

“I heard you used to live with someone.”

It was a reasonable question, right? Shiro’s preference for men was something of an open secret in Nottingham, and most of the town had known that Adam was living with him as his lover. Keith hadn’t picked up any lingering gossip on his forays into town, but hopefully Shiro would assume he had.

Shiro’s smile remained steady. “You heard right. That ended a few years ago, though.”

Keith stared into his wine. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We just… started wanting different things. It was time to move on.”

The words eased a taut bowstring of fear in Keith’s chest—for a moment, he’d worried that Shiro lost more in the accident than just his arm. Adam had always felt like such a permanent fixture in Shiro’s life; it was strange to think that anything less than death would take him away.

Shiro’s gaze had turned inward, stormy eyes glazed with private memories. At least he seemed to be at peace with whatever had happened between them.

“Are you lonely?”

Shiro blinked in surprise.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But, I have Nyma and Rolo and Atlas and Black, and all my tenants here for company. And the Holts are like my second family.” He sidled across the few inches between them to bump Keith’s shoulder with his own. “And right now, I’m with you.”

The warmth curling in Keith’s core had nothing to do with the wine. Shiro was giving him another one of those looks—a little too bold, a little too heated. Like Keith’s presence here was the ultimate cure for any loneliness he might feel. Keith allowed himself a small, flattered smile, before he pushed the feeling away. Shiro’s words had reminded him of the real reason he was here—he had a job to do.

“The Holts… You mentioned Sam Holt earlier. With Sendak.”

Shiro’s expression darkened. “He was arrested for treason, about four months ago. Nobody’s seen or heard from him since.”

Not dead, then—if he was, his remains would have been returned to his family.

“What if I told you I can get him back?”

Shiro’s eyes widened. “What? How?”

“You might’ve noticed I’m pretty good at sneaking in and out of places. If we can find out where Sam is being held, I can go in and break him out.”

Shiro shook his head. “He’s probably in the dungeons at Nottingham Castle. The place is crawling with Prince Zarkon’s men. You’d never make it.”

Keith shrugged. “It wouldn’t be my first time breaking out of a prison.”

He immediately regretted saying so much—he saw the way Shiro’s eyes flickered at the words—but thankfully Shiro let it slide.

“Even if you _can_ do it, it’s still a huge risk to take for someone you don’t even know.”

Keith hesitated. He wanted to say he _did_ know Sam—he’d stayed with the Holts for a few months before joining the Garrison, at Shiro’s request. He’d never felt at home there, but that was no fault of theirs; Keith simply didn’t know how to live with a family anymore. They’d treated him with kindness, and he was anxious to do everything he could to repay them.

Of course, saying any of that was out of the question. He settled on an explanation that was no less the truth: “I know _you_. If you say he’s a good man, that means he’s worth saving.”

Shiro’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. A million emotions seemed to tumble through his mind at once. Keith could see the arguments rising to his lips one by one, only to fizzle before he found his voice.

“Besides,” Keith continued awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “fighting back against the prince is kind of what we’re all about.”

Shiro grasped onto the statement like a lifeline. “Earlier, in Sendak’s study. When he mentioned Prince Zarkon, you seemed interested. Do you know something?”

Keith developed a sudden extreme fascination with his wine. He downed three big gulps while Shiro’s stare drilled holes in the side of his head.

“Red…”

Not for the first time, Keith contemplated how much easier his life could be if he were a better liar.

“It’s not my secret to tell.” He met Shiro’s probing eyes, begging him to understand. “Just… know that we’re not some random band of thieves. We’re doing this for a reason. I can’t tell you what that is right now, but… I promise you can trust me. Please.”

His heartbeat fluttered pathetically in his chest, like a baby bird with a broken wing, while Shiro searched for hints in his masked face. After what felt like hours, the glinting edge of Shiro’s curiosity blunted, replaced by a sharpened arrow of determination.

“Okay. How can I help?”

Just like that, Shiro offered to put himself on the line again. Keith drowned a mix of guilt and elation under another swallow of the wine.

“The money we stole from the treasury wasn’t just for show. We’ve decided to give it back to the people.”

“You’re really letting this Robin Hood thing go to your head, aren’t you?” Shiro teased. “Are your Merry Men okay with that?”

“It was a unanimous decision.” Keith’s smile turned sheepish. “Eventually.”

The argument had lasted an entire day. If the idea hadn’t come from Allura, Lance never would have agreed. And while in many ways Hunk was the sweetest, bravest person Keith had ever known, he also had a strong sense of self-preservation—Keith and Allura had to lay out their plan in excruciating detail, including back-up plans and safeguards to protect the innocent people they were involving in their plot, before he would approve.

“We’re going to distribute it slowly, so Sendak hopefully won’t realize what’s going on. Little bits here and there to the people who need it the most.”

Shiro nodded, thoughtful. “That makes sense. If you slowly undo Sendak’s noose around Nottingham, people won’t be so afraid to stand up to him.”

“But we’ve been away from Nottingham for a long time,” Keith pressed on. “We need help finding out where the money will do the most good.” He shifted closer, words spilling past his lips. “I know you pay attention—not just to your tenants, but to everyone around you. If somebody really needs help, you’re the person they’ll turn to.”

Shiro’s face had frozen. “Wait. You’ve been away..? Does that mean you lived here before the war?”

_Shit._

Keith’s eyes darted around the room. The dark shelves lining the walls seemed to crowd around him, cutting off his lines of escape. The pair of worn leather chairs in front of the fireplace, the polished blue and silver urn on the table by the window, the carved bust of the first Lord Shirogane staring with its sightless eyes from an empty shelf by the door—all of these nostalgic pieces, reassuring to him at first, now felt like snares tripping him up. He’d relaxed too much, lulled by the feeling of familiarity. And he knew if he tried to lie his way out of this, Shiro would see right through him.

“Some of us did,” Keith hedged.

Twin thunderstorms crackled in Shiro’s eyes. He leaned closer. “Did _you_?”

Keith had to look away, focusing instead on a pair of golden arrows displayed on a shelf above Shiro’s head. Each arrow was a trophy, granted to the winner of the Garrison’s annual arms competition for new recruits. Keith remembered all the stories of how Shiro had earned the one on the right, when his grandfather first sent him to the Garrison. The one on the left—that one, Keith had given to Shiro with his own hands, in this very room.

Keith closed his eyes. It wasn’t that he thought Shiro would throw it away, of course he wouldn’t—but seeing the arrow on display, dusted and gleaming with the room’s other treasures, still rocked him.

“That’s not important.” His fingers laced around his right wrist, still safely concealed under the protective layers of his clothing. “If you can point us to the people who need the money the most, we can give it to them, and we can both get what we want.”

The stubborn set of Shiro’s mouth said he wouldn’t be easily distracted. Keith knew that look; once Shiro latched onto something like this, he clung to it with a bulldog’s tenacity. 

It would be so easy to slip, to tell him everything. Keith hated the games, the hiding. And if Shiro knew it was Keith asking, he’d trust Keith unconditionally. It might make things easier, in the long run.

But the way Shiro kept looking at him tonight felt so different from what their friendship used to be. And deep down, in a belligerently honest kernel of his heart, Keith had to admit he kind of liked it. If Shiro found out who he really was, he’d lose his chance to figure out what it all meant.

_Please._

He crossed his arms, blazing with defiance. “Are you in or not?”

_Please don’t ask._

Shiro took in the tension in Keith’s shoulders, the claw-like grip of his fingers around his forearms. His breath left him in a slow, gentle exhale.

“I’m in,” he said.

Keith’s relief was so palpable, he almost swayed on his feet.

“And I know who you should help first. The Balmera family had a rough harvest, and Sendak took what yield they had when they couldn’t afford their taxes. They care for a lot of people on that farm. They could use any help they can get, especially with winter coming.”

Keith nodded eagerly. “Balmera farm. Consider it done.”

“Great.” Shiro grinned, raising his glass. “How about a toast? To our new partnership.”

Keith really liked the sound of that. He returned the grin, clinking their glasses together.

When they both finished their wine, Keith dragged a hesitant finger around the rim of his glass.

“There’s one more thing. Actually… I _am_ here to steal from you.”

Shiro barked out a laugh. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Sendak will realize his stuff went missing after he met with you. If we don’t rob you, too, he’s gonna get suspicious.” Keith placed his empty glass on the shelf, and spread his hands to encompass the objects in the room. “You can decide what I take, but it needs to be something valuable, something you’d obviously hate to lose. It’s the only way to make him think you’re just as much of a victim as he is.”

Shiro chewed his bottom lip for a moment, considering.

“Okay. You win.” He set down his own glass, bobbing his chin toward the window. “That urn is the most valuable thing in the house—it was a personal gift from the Mikado of Japan, supposedly. My grandfather polished it himself every evening because he wouldn’t trust anyone else to touch it.” His teeth flashed in a rueful smile. “I knocked it down once, when I was fooling around. I’ve never seen him move that fast—he did a flying leap across the room.” Mirth danced in his eyes at the memory. “He gave me this _look_ after he caught it. I still can’t believe it didn’t turn me to stone. He didn’t need to bother with a lecture after that—I got the message loud and clear.”

Keith chuckled softly—he’d never heard this story before. It was impossible to imagine Shiro’s grandfather moving any faster than a dignified walk, let alone hurling himself across the center table.

“I’ll be careful with it, then,” he promised. “Wouldn’t want him to haunt me.”

Shiro snorted. “God, definitely not. I’m half expecting him to come after me, since I bargained away half the family fortune. He wouldn’t even say anything—he’d just _stare_.”

More laughter bubbled up from Keith’s throat—he knew exactly the stare Shiro was talking about. The thought of being haunted by that was terrifying.

He made his way to the urn in question, admiring the floral patterns painted onto its pristine surface. His finger traced the delicate petals of a soft blue wisteria blossom while Shiro came to stand behind him.

“I’m sorry I have to do this. When this is over, I promise I’ll give it back.”

“I appreciate that, Red. But if it can help the people or your cause somehow, don’t hesitate to use it. Honestly, I think that’s what my grandfather would want, too.”

Keith opened the window, shuddering in the sobering burst of autumn night air. He’d lingered here too long; it was only a matter of time until Allura came looking for him. He picked up the urn with gentle hands, cradling it tenderly in his arms as he turned to face Shiro.

“Thank you, Lord Shirogane,” he said teasingly. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Shiro.” The correction was immediate. “That’s… My friends call me Shiro. I’d like it if you did, too.” Shiro rubbed the back of his neck. “If you want.”

Here, in this moment, with the melodic chirping of the evening insects at his back and the gentle breeze ruffling the edges of his scarlet cloak, there was nothing Keith wanted more. He swallowed the knot of emotion in his throat, lips curled in a tentative smile.

“…Shiro.”

Shiro’s face went unbelievably soft. “Yeah,” he sighed.

Keith made no move to leave; instead he found himself stumbling a step closer, like a lost traveler drawn toward a welcoming fire.

“Shiro… Promise me you’ll be careful. I know you know what you’re doing, but… just… remember you’re not fighting alone, okay?”

As though pulled by an invisible thread, Shiro’s body swayed closer, until only the urn in Keith’s arms maintained the space between them. He grasped Keith’s forearm and squeezed gently.

“Yeah. I promise. Thanks, Red.”

His eyes were twin pools of moonlight, reflecting the jeweled sky beyond the window. If Keith sank into them any further, he would drown.

There were worse ways to go.

He pulled gently out of Shiro’s hold, placing one foot on the windowsill. Lantern light spilled onto the swaying grass, beckoning him, but not before he cast one last look over his shoulder.

“Good night, Shiro.”

Shiro’s answering smile was downright dreamy. “Night, Red.”

Keith hopped out into the starlight, running as fast as he dared with the urn in his arms. He could feel the heat of Shiro’s gaze on the back of his neck, chasing him all the way to the forest’s edge, where Allura waited.

Her pale brows arched appreciatively at the sight of his prize. “I take it he agreed?”

Keith nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Allura accepted the gesture with a small, knowing smile, and fell into step beside him. He knew she’d question him relentlessly later—with the moon looming bright overhead, there was no way she missed the way his ears burned as red as his cloak—but for now, mercifully, she left him to his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More with the paladins next time!
> 
> I still spend too much time on Twitter retweeting art & fic @SundaySEternal


	5. Chapter 5

It was quiet on the forest’s edge, where the hills of Sendak’s estate met the steady line of guardian pines. Shiro imagined he could hear the tinkling music of the needles trembling in the breeze, the percussion of branches tapping against the trunks of their neighboring trees.

He stifled a yawn carefully behind his soft gray glove and tried to look interested while Sendak’s goshawk circled above the treetops. It was a beautiful bird, with a fine pattern of black-and-white streaked feathers, but Shiro never had much interest in hunting. He always found himself pitying the small game the hawks or hounds brought back to their masters. It was one thing for hawks to take prey in the wild—that was how nature worked—but using the animals to capture that same prey for sport felt wrong somehow. Any noble had farms full of livestock on their property if they were hungry; it wasn’t as though they needed these poor voles and rabbits to survive.

He envied Atlas, dozing at the base of the hill next to Sendak’s horse. The sun was just warm enough on his skin to make him yearn for a nap, and the grass was green and tantalizing under his black boots. He longed to flop down right where he was, close his eyes, and dream of Red’s camp in the forest nearby. The thieves’ home base had to be somewhere in Sherwood—it would explain that pleasant pine-and-woodsmoke scent Shiro caught whenever Red was close—but Sendak’s men had combed the forest several times in the last two weeks without finding a trace.

Though he felt fairly certain he was of more use to Sendak alive at this point, falling asleep in the sheriff’s presence just wasn’t a risk he was prepared to take. Shiro kept himself regrettably awake and upright. If he could escape this meeting before it got too late, there might be time for a solitary nap on his way home.

“Am I boring you, Lord Shirogane?”

Sendak stood at ease, watching his hawk, but there was a dry edge to his voice.

“I am wondering why I’m here,” Shiro admitted. “We’ve agreed to be friendly in public, but don’t pretend you asked me here for the pleasure of my company.”

Sendak snorted. “Indeed not.”

“Have you had any word about my urn?”

The corded muscles in Sendak’s thick neck tensed. “Nothing yet. Nor the things I lost.” His gaze narrowed as the goshawk banked into a focused dive, disappearing into the treetops. “Lady Sanda’s missing locket turned up in Bridgford.”

_That_ was news. Shiro perked up. “Oh?”

“The merchant who bought it couldn’t remember much about the people who sold it to him, except that they were a pair, a man and a boy. He said they kept their hoods up.” Sendak’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “It seems it pays not to ask questions, in his line of work. The locket was the only item they sold.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Ten days. _If_ the merchant is to be believed.” Sendak sounded doubtful. “I’ve sent missives to the sheriffs of all the towns within fifteen miles. If they try to move any of the other pieces, we’ll know.”

Shiro made a mental note to warn Red about that the next time they spoke. The thieves’ last heist happened six days ago, when they removed four tapestries from the Montgomery estate. Red had dropped by Shiro’s house briefly that night to tell him all was well at Balmera farm. When Shiro suggested he should visit the McClain family next, the secret satisfaction in Red’s smile made him feel woozy. He’d taken to keeping the library window open despite the cooler evenings, just in case.

He’d almost forgotten how it felt to want someone. It was as if he’d been living under a stagnant death shroud since the accident, until Red appeared and flooded his world with vibrant color.

And he _thought_ Red wasn’t indifferent to him. He’d felt the way Red shivered when their bodies were pressed close, seen the way Red’s eyes seemed to linger on his profile while they were talking. The sunset flush he’d seen in the man’s skin _might_ have been due to the wine, he supposed, but was it too conceited to hope it might mean something else?

_Next time_ , Shiro promised himself, watching Sendak’s butler disappear into the woods in pursuit of the hawk. The next time Red visited, he would do something bold, something obvious, something the thief couldn’t possibly misinterpret.

He just… wasn’t sure what that something would be, yet.

“Sir?” The butler’s voice carried from the trees. “You should see this.”

Sendak’s mouth twisted into a downturn so profound it may have been carved into his features. He strode into the forest, fingers wrapped around the hilt of the hunting knife in his belt. Shiro followed a polite distance behind.

They came upon a standoff in the shadow of an elderly tree. The goshawk bristled over the corpse of a bloodstained rabbit, feathers puffed and wings spread, beak open in warning. Just beyond the reach of that beak, a wolf pup crouched in a nest of fallen needles, hackles raised as it snarled.

Shiro’s first instinct was to scan the surrounding foliage for any sign of the wolf’s pack, but Sherwood remained silent. On a second look, the pup was clearly too small and scrawny for the time of year. The outlines of its ribs stood out plainly under its dull black coat.

It wasn’t hard to imagine what must have happened. Farmers were encouraged to kill the beasts on sight, and their pelts fetched a decent price at the market. The pup probably did the best it could, scavenging small meals here and there, but anyone could see it wouldn’t last. Wolves weren’t meant to hunt alone.

Shiro knew the reasons—of course he did, he had livestock of his own—but every time he saw a pelt on display, his mind filled with the memory of a hideous W, seared into pale skin.

It didn’t seem fair. Wolves had as much right to survive as anything else.

At Sendak’s low whistle, the hawk obediently abandoned its kill, flapping back to the sheriff’s outstretched arm. The pup pounced onto the rabbit with a desperate growling bark.

An image of Red, arms clasped tight across his chest, came to mind. If he’d had fangs, he would’ve been snarling, too, when Shiro pried into his past. His glare had been just as desperate as the way the pup was posturing now. Shiro knew with bone-chilling certainty that if he pushed too far, Red would flee, and Shiro would never see him again. The thought was unbearable.

So Shiro had swallowed the wild, desperate flare of hope in his heart, until it dimmed from a bonfire’s radiance to the flicker of a single candle. He wouldn’t give up, but he could wait until Red was ready to tell him. _Patience yields focus_ , after all.

Sendak jabbed his chin toward the pup. “Kill it.”

“Wait!” Shiro’s voice wrenched from his throat. The butler paused with his knife halfway unsheathed, looking up with more expression than Shiro had ever seen him wear. 

Sendak’s face was blank. “You would spare this creature?”

“I would. Its leg is injured, and it’s too small to threaten any of our livestock. There’s no need to kill it.”

“What do you intend to do with it, then?”

Shiro’s fingers curled into a fist. “I’ll—”

“You can’t take in every stray that collapses in your path, Lord Shirogane,” Sendak said. His patronizing tone made Shiro’s jaw clench. “It’s only a matter of time before you’re bitten.”

Clearly, this wasn’t just about the pup anymore. Shiro breathed the scent of pinecones through his nose, forcing his shoulders to relax before he did something stupid. Breaking Sendak’s nose would probably qualify as stupid, right? But it might make him feel better, at least for a moment.

“It won’t survive the winter alone.” Sendak didn’t look at the wolf; his eye remained fixed on Shiro’s face, scanning for any reaction. “Killing it will be a mercy.”

Shiro watched the pup’s yellow eyes, rolling nervously from one human to another. A soft growl vibrated from the pup’s chest.

His fingers loosened one by one, until his hand hung open at his side.

“Fine.” He nodded sharply to the butler. “Make it quick.”

With a shallow bow in Shiro’s direction, the butler unsheathed his knife and approached the pup. Shiro averted his eyes, but he couldn’t tune out the sound of the pup’s snarls growing louder and more ferocious as the man moved closer. Behind his eyes he saw Keith struggling against the two Garrison officers who’d held his arms, the day he was branded.

By the time Shiro felt the prickling sensation under his skin that meant someone was approaching his back, a strong hand was already grasping his wrist, while cold metal slid against his skin.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Red’s voice drawled.

 

The day began uneventfully enough, by Keith’s standards. He’d spent his afternoon at the McClain farm on the eastern outskirts of Nottingham, watching Lance squirm and panic while trying to hide his identity from his parents, siblings, and a noisy brood of nieces and nephews. The charade had ended in a matter of minutes, when Lance’s mother saw through her son’s disguise and fake accent; she and his sister, Veronica, dragged him into the house for a long conversation, leaving Keith and Coran to entertain the children while Pidge divvied money and goods up among the other adults. Keith wasn’t much good with kids, but they seemed to like his knife tricks well enough, and Coran was in his element. Really, Keith should’ve figured that the older man could do stage magic—some days it seemed there was nothing Coran _couldn’t_ do. That ridiculous cape Coran insisted on wearing looked a lot more fitting when he was pulling live doves out of his sleeves.

They were almost back to camp when Allura sprinted out of the trees, blue hood fallen and loose strands of silver hair streaming from her bun. She answered Lance’s greeting with a distracted smile and stopped in front of Keith, grasping his arm in a grip he couldn’t break if he tried.

“Keith! The sheriff and Lord Shirogane are nearby. They’re coming into the woods!”

Keith felt like one of Coran’s doves was trapped somewhere between his chest and his throat. Before he had time to think, Allura was tugging him into a run. They sped past Hunk, who was huffing and puffing in Allura’s wake with a freshly killed deer across his shoulders, jumped across a slender branch of the creek, and darted around the thick fallen log they often used as a meeting place.

Voices reached Keith’s ears before he saw them. He let Allura guide him into the shadow of a thorny bush, both throwing their hoods up as they squinted through a gap in the leaves.

Shiro stood at the edge of the clearing, his back to their hiding place. He wore a gray shirt similar to the one from that night at Garrison Hall, with gray riding pants and high black boots. An impression of the Shirogane crest—two crescent moons forming a full circle—was stitched subtly in white on the back of his violet vest.

“…it’s too small to threaten any of our livestock. There’s no need to kill it,” Shiro was saying.

Beside Keith, Allura placed a hand over her mouth. A scrawny wolf pup snarled over a dead rabbit, while Sendak’s butler stood over it with a knife half unsheathed.

Keith sucked in a silent breath, wrapping tense fingers around his right wrist. He felt his lips twist in a wavering smile.

He thought—he hoped—he knew why Shiro might want to save a wolf.

“You can’t take in every stray that collapses in your path, Lord Shirogane,” Sendak sneered.

Keith’s hand moved to his knife, strapped as always to the belt at his back. He could feel Allura’s eyes on him, could all but hear her silent cautioning, but it was hard to think clearly while he knew Sendak was talking about _him_. Shiro’s willingness to take in a stray had saved Keith’s life. And Sendak talked like that kindness was a _flaw_ , like Shiro’s trust in Keith had been a mistake.

He couldn’t stay back and do nothing, not if it meant letting Sendak win.

Besides, the wolf pup clearly had some spunk, growling at men several times its size. Saving its life was a cause Keith could get behind.

Keith crept close and pressed the knife against Shiro’s throat, careful not to nick skin. He was glad Shiro didn’t wear any of the ridiculous ruffles or lacy cravats that made the other nobles look like frilled lizards, but to be honest, an extra layer wouldn’t hurt right now. The last thing he wanted was to make Shiro bleed again.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Shiro glanced over his shoulder, surprise plain in his gray eyes. His snowy hair had been combed back, but the wilderness breeze had blown a few rebellious strands back onto his forehead. Keith squeezed his wrist in a way he hoped was reassuring.

It wasn’t that he _didn’t_ have a plan, no matter what Hunk said. More that he had a sketchy outline of a plan that would fall into place on its own, once he blundered through the rougher details.

He glared at the sheriff over the slope of Shiro’s shoulder, his first real meeting with the man since the day he was branded. Even off duty, Sendak was dressed in a variation of the Garrison uniform, slate gray with accents of ruby and gold. He looked more like a battlefield commander than a civil servant. Keith had seen war, had faced down ruthless generals like Sendak and looked into their eyes as their blades clashed. Sendak still carried that aura about him now, twenty years after his own war had ended. Some people didn’t know how to live without an enemy to fight.

Matching Sendak’s cold stare sent an unpleasant shudder through Keith’s blood, as though goosebumps prickled inside his veins. His right wrist itched like the skin might flake off. But he wasn’t the powerless boy Sendak had banished from Nottingham, not anymore. He was an adult, a veteran of battle in his own right, and he felt confident he wouldn’t lose to the sheriff in a one-on-one fight. He had the knife in his hand, his tie to a family he thought he’d lost. He had his friends, the family he built for himself, emerging from the forest with weapons drawn, ready to fight by his side whether he asked them to or not.

And he still had Shiro.

“Knives on the ground, both of you,” Keith commanded.

The butler shot a glance at his master, fingers still tight around the hunting knife. Sendak’s eye remained fixed on Keith’s face. For a tense moment Keith thought they would come to blows, but the sheriff gave a tight nod.

“Do it,” Sendak snapped. A sweep of his arm sent the hawk back into the air, allowing him to remove the knife from his belt and toss it onto the carpet of needles. The butler followed his lead.

Keith almost sighed in relief. In the guise of a much larger man, Allura stepped close behind Sendak, drawing her staff roughly across his throat. Coran moved to guard the butler with a few showy jabs of his rapier, while Pidge collected the knives on the ground. Lance’s bow was drawn, ready to fire at whichever man made a wrong move.

While they checked Sendak and his butler for any other hidden weapons, Keith leaned a little closer to Shiro’s ear.

“You getting careless, old timer?” he murmured.

A soft, exasperated huff of breath was his only warning before Shiro’s full weight slumped back into Keith’s chest. Keith let out a sound that was half wheeze, half laugh, scrambling for balance. It took all his desert-honed strength and agility to keep them both off the ground.

“Why,” he grumbled, once he’d forced Shiro back to an upright position, “are you making this difficult?”

Shiro responded by twisting in Keith’s grip so he could jab his elbow into Keith’s ribs. Keith gasped out a curse and wrestled him back into place.

They ended up with Shiro’s arm bent at a rough angle, pinned between the middle of his back and the press of Keith’s shoulder. Keith dragged the knife in a slow, careful path up the line of Shiro’s throat, until the deadly edge forced his chin toward the sky.

“Behave,” Keith hissed.

With his thumb pressed hard to the inside of Shiro’s wrist, Keith could feel the way Shiro’s pulse was racing. The warm cinnamon-and-spice scent Shiro always carried with him was almost overwhelming from this close. He smelled like home.

Keith found himself fighting a sudden, irrational urge to bury his face in the back of Shiro’s neck and inhale deeply.

“What now, o’ fearless leader?” Lance’s voice sliced through Keith’s nerves like the point of one of his arrows.

Keith pushed as far away from Shiro as he could without losing his hold, feeling his ears go warm.

_Wow, Keith._ Not _the time._

His friends were all watching him with varying degrees of concern or impatience. Only Coran seemed really at ease, standing relaxed with the point of his rapier pricking the butler’s throat.

No one saw the way the butler flicked his wrist, producing a hidden knife from his sleeve.

No one except Lance—before Keith was done drawing breath for a warning, the butler’s arm was pinned to the tree trunk behind him by three arrows through his sleeve. The knife tumbled harmlessly to the forest floor.

“Aw yeah!” Lance twirled the bow around his wrist before catching it in his hand, smug grin in place.

Yeah, okay, Keith had to admit it was impressive. But using _three_ arrows at once? Definitely overkill. There was no reason to waste their arrow supply when just one shot would have made the same point.

Still, being a leader meant giving credit where credit was due.

“You might wanna think before trying that again. Our sharpshooter doesn’t miss.” God, Lance was preening like a puffed up cardinal. “Let’s take them back to their horses, guys. We’re going for a ride.”

“Where are we going?” Sendak growled.

Right. The plan. Keith’s eyes darted around the clearing. Thankfully, the wolf pup had good sense—it had used their distraction to drag its dinner off into the underbrush.

With the wolf safe, he _could_ just release Sendak’s party be done with it. That would be the smart move. But it also meant letting Shiro go, and Keith wasn’t quite ready to do that yet.

His gaze came to rest on Hunk, who lingered warily at the edge of the thicket with the deer still draped across his shoulders. Whatever he saw on Keith’s face shifted Hunk’s expression from curiosity to horror. He shook his head hard, pleading with his eyes.

Keith turned his predatory grin back on Sendak, ignoring the way Hunk wilted.

“We interrupted the sheriff’s hunt, so it’s only fair if we share ours. Let’s have a dinner party.”

 

The ride back to Sendak’s home couldn’t last long enough. Atlas trailed at the end of the procession, Red seated behind Shiro with his chest pressed flush to Shiro’s back. One arm wrapped close around Shiro’s waist, while the other rested in a firm line across his chest, ostensibly to keep the blade close against the hollow of his throat. Red’s sharp chin frequently brushed the slope of Shiro’s shoulder, his breath teasing the hairs on Shiro’s neck. Only the constant heat of his body kept Shiro from shivering at every exhale; thankfully Shiro’s long sleeves hid the worst of the goosebumps prickling his skin.

Shiro was far from an expert at riding double, but he was fairly certain it didn’t require sitting so close. Atlas had a broad back with plenty of space, and her gait was as steady and regular as the hourly chime of Nottingham’s church bell. Not that Shiro was complaining, though, especially when Red’s arm squeezed tighter around his middle as Atlas moved into a brisk trot.

And if Shiro abandoned proper riding posture and sank back against Red’s chest for the rest of the journey, well, he could hardly be held accountable.

Besides, his would-be captor was just as guilty. Red’s hand didn’t _need_ to slide along Shiro’s side like that when they stopped in front of Sendak’s house; nor was it necessary to drag his thumb along the inside of Shiro’s wrist while they dismounted. Shiro could only assume he was doing it on purpose.

“End of the line,” Red announced. The words may have been meant for the group, but his mischievous eyes remained on Shiro.

_“What are you doing?”_ Shiro mouthed. Sendak was dismounting his own horse several paces away, guided not-so-gently by the giant in the blue cloak, but Shiro didn’t want to risk being overheard. For all he knew, Sendak’s hearing could have sharpened to compensate for the lost eye; the man already had unusually big ears.

Red’s daredevil grin made something swoop deep in Shiro’s stomach.

_“Trust me,”_ his lips said.

_“Always.”_

The word rose unbidden from somewhere deeply ingrained in Shiro’s consciousness, and he realized, helplessly, that it was the truth. For all that Red’s reckless antics made him sweat, there was something comfortable about the thief’s presence, an innate confidence that as long as Shiro played along, everything would turn out fine. He would trust Red with his life, if it came to that.

He thought he saw a flicker of surprise in Red’s eyes before the thief ducked back behind him, returning the cool metal of the blade to his throat.

As he was marched through Sendak’s front door, Shiro considered rebelling a little more—not enough to actually escape, of course, but just to stir things up a little, make Sendak think he was at least trying. If he was especially lucky, it might make Red hold him a little closer, too.

Unfortunately, he took too long to make up his mind. Red strode through the house like he knew exactly where he was going, until Shiro found himself in what appeared to be a formal dining room. Dusky white cloths shrouded the narrow table and each of its chairs, lurking along the sides of the room like hungry ghosts. Specks of dust circled lazily in the slim shaft of light from a single window, peeking between plush ruby curtains.

Shiro supposed it made sense; outside of their meetings at Garrison Hall, the sheriff didn’t seem like the type to entertain guests at home. He probably took his meals in the study, surrounded by plenty of sharp objects he could reach for if he ever needed a knife.

The big man in yellow peeled off from the rest of the group, directing Sendak’s butler by the collar and muttering his dark hope that the kitchen at least would be spotless. His broad hand cradled the dead deer almost tenderly over his shoulder, and he shifted his body to avoid bumping its head against any corners or doorframes as he walked

A man who treated his ingredients with such respect _had_ to be an excellent chef. If Shiro came out of this incident with a delicious meal, he would be satisfied.

_Wait._

Shiro counted the people currently filing into the dining room—six, including himself and Red, and the butler and his captor made eight.

_Where’d the little green one go?_

The mustached man in the ostentatious cape swiped the cloth from the table smoothly enough that any silverware would have been left standing, twirling it around his body as he performed a pirouette. Shiro’s eyes watered, nose scrunching against a sneeze as the man threw back the heavy curtains and bathed the room in afternoon light.

Meanwhile, the skinny man with the bow on his back cracked his knuckles before unfurling a long swath of colorful fabric across the length of the table, not quite broad enough to cover both ends. The cloth displayed an image of five knights kneeling before an empty golden throne, weaved with such magnificent stitching that it felt like they could stand up and step out of the picture.

Shiro squinted—actually, he’d seen this image before, in the main receiving hall of the Montgomery mansion. These hellions were using one of the stolen tapestries as a tablecloth.

He glanced over his shoulder to give Red a _look_. Red rewarded him with a delightful dastardly smirk.

_Well._ Sure, that tapestry was probably worth more than this entire house, but so what if it got a little stained—Shiro had never liked the Montgomerys much, anyway.

Red made a show of dusting off the chair to the right of the head of the table, sweeping his bandanna across a faded scarlet cushion lined with gold trim. When he was satisfied, his body curved in a graceful bow, arm swept out grandly in invitation. Dancing eyes sparkled over the ironic twist of his lips.

“Take a seat, your lordship.”

Shiro sat with as much dignity as he could muster—back straight, chin held high, expression coolly disdainful—and willed his racing heart to heel.

Across from him, Sendak had to be forced into his own chair. The giant in blue clutched the sheriff’s shoulder in what had to be a crushing grip, fingers digging into fabric stretched by straining muscles. Sendak was clearly fighting the hold with all of his power, but the thief restrained him one-handed as though he were no more than a petulant child. Shiro was a big guy, but he knew he couldn’t match Sendak for brute strength; Blue here was something else.

Shiro’s eyes traced the line of Blue’s smooth staff, held like an extension of the thief’s body. Huge build, overwhelming strength, and skill with a staff—there was a character like that in the Robin Hood legend, too.

_I’ll call you Little John,_ Shiro decided.

Red stalked around to the head of the table, fanning out his cloak in a scarlet flare before dropping regally into his chair. He lounged back and slung his boots onto the table with a soft thud, one ankle crossed over the heel he rested on one knight’s helmet. Really, the length of the man’s legs should have been illegal, to say nothing of the way his soft red boots hugged his calves. And okay, those close-fitting black trousers he wore were probably comfortable and easy to move in, but they showed off the toned lines of his thighs a little too well.

Shiro hoped the thieves planned on serving drinks soon—suddenly he was feeling parched.

Thankfully oblivious to Shiro’s internal meltdown, Red relaxed, teeth flashing in a savage grin. His magic dagger twirled between his fingers until its deadly shape blurred into a whirlwind of lavender light.

He jerked his chin toward the man with the bow. “Set the table, will you? I think we have the perfect plates for the occasion.”

The other man bristled at the order, but after a few seconds’ stare-down with Red, he bent to his discarded sack with a huff. Shiro noted the fabric of his ruby cloak had a silken hue to it, finer than what the other thieves were wearing.

_You can be Will Scarlet._ Scarlet was supposed to be a swordsman in the stories, but seeing as Red had yet to touch a bow, Shiro figured it couldn’t hurt to mix things up a little.

He turned his eyes to the man in the cape and ridiculous mask, who ignored the empty chairs and struck a dramatic pose directly on the tabletop. He’d produced a lute seemingly out of thin air and began tuning the instrument, tongue peeking out under his ginger mustache.

_He’s a minstrel, so he’s Alan-a-Dale._

Shiro watched the flamboyant musician with a mix of foreboding and morbid curiosity, until the meaning of Red’s words sunk in.

_The perfect plates..? No._

Shiro’s stomach performed a cannon-ball dive into the black abyss. His eyes shot back just in time for Will Scarlet to set a plate on the table in front of him, with a gentle clunk of porcelain. A saber-toothed lion painted in violet snarled up at him from the center of his empty plate.

A massive thud rattled the table, jumping the plate into the air as though the lion were snapping at his nose.

Sendak had risen halfway to a standing position, right hand flat against the tabletop. His lips were drawn back in an ugly snarl, as though he would tear Red’s head from his neck using only his teeth if given the chance. For the first time, Little John seemed to be having a hard time holding him down—the huge thief’s knuckles had turned pale with the effort.

Will Scarlet clutched the remaining plates to his chest, stunned. If Sendak did break loose, Shiro doubted if the sharpshooter would be able to react fast enough to shoot him. Even the minstrel’s fingers had frozen in place on the slender neck of the lute.

But Red… Red was enjoying this _far_ too much.

“What’s the matter, Sheriff?” he purred through his teeth. “You don’t like the design?”

Shiro’s mouth threatened to quirk into a smile. Right now, his Red Riding Hood was doing a credible impression of the Big Bad Wolf.

“You will return these items,” Sendak growled.

Alan-a-Dale must have recovered—he followed Sendak’s words with a brief, dramatic melody on his lute. For atmosphere, Shiro could only assume.

“Will I?” Red aimed his devilish smile at Shiro. “Do you like the set-up, Lord Shirogane?”

“Exquisite,” Shiro murmured. “You certainly have expensive taste.”

“Kinda helps in my line of work.”

Porcelain rattled again as Sendak lunged into the table, forcing Little John to brace the staff across his chest. Shiro did a double-take—was it just his imagination, or had Little John grown a few inches taller? The thief’s arms somehow looked even more massive than they had a few moments ago. Slowly, straining every inch of the way, Sendak was forced back down into his chair.

“That knife,” Sendak spat, while Will Scarlet resumed setting the table. Tall fluted glasses came next, much to Shiro’s relief. “Where did you steal it?”

Red’s elegant fingers froze, holding the knife before him. The jagged symbol etched into the hilt stood out starkly against the lavender-gray grip.

“I didn’t steal it,” Red said. “It was given to me.”

Shiro searched his masked face. There was something guarded in the thief’s tone, something soft and a little raw, like a dirty bandage peeled from an old wound. He wished he was close enough to get a proper look into Red’s eyes.

Sendak’s snort was coarse and cruel. Shiro barely controlled his face before he pinned the man with a glare.

“You must think me a fool. Only Marmora blood can awaken those knives. You’re no Marmora, boy.”

A muscle in Red’s jaw tightened. The knife jumped into his left hand with an elegant flick of his wrist. A flash of glowing lavender glittered across the table as the blade extended to sword length, its deadly tip prodding against Sendak’s throat.

The transformation was accompanied by a triumphant series of notes from the lute.

“I didn’t steal it,” Red repeated.

Sendak swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling the sword's edge.

“How far the Marmora have fallen,” he sneered, “if honorless children like you wield their blades.”

The blade pressed closer, drawing a sharp red line against his flesh.

“Are _you_ really talking about honor?” Red hissed.

“Do you know how many of your clan I’ve killed?”

“Hey.” An arrow appeared in Will Scarlet’s hand in the blink of an eye, drawn and ready to fire. “You might wanna think before you talk.”

Shiro eyed him with newfound respect. Clearly, he was more alert than Shiro had given him credit for.

And it wasn’t just him—Little John’s hand had shifted across Sendak’s shoulder, sliding up to squeeze at the base of the sheriff’s skull. Shiro got the strong impression that those hands could easily snap a neck if they chose. Even the mustached minstrel projected a surprising intensity, skilled fingers stroking the hilt of a knife at his belt.

Clearing his throat softly, Shiro tapped one blunt fingernail two times against the side of his glass.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the dinner theatre,” he said calmly, “but do you think I could get something to drink?”

For a moment, Shiro could feel the burn of nine eyes locked on his face. He directed his own expectant gaze at Red, with a pointed nod at his empty glass.

Tension eked out of Red’s frame. The curved blade retracted in a flash of light, the harsh line of his mouth softening as he relaxed back into his chair. He offered Shiro a deferential dip of his chin.

“Apologies, your lordship. Not much of a host, am I?” He turned to Will Scarlet, whose bow was still drawn. “Would you mind filling Lord Shirogane’s glass?”

The bow lowered, arrow vanishing into the sleeve of the man’s cloak. Red’s manner was decidedly kinder than it had been before, and Will accepted the request with a smile.

“Sure thing.” He retreated to the doorway to dig through the pile of sacks the thieves had left there, and returned with a dusty green bottle, freshly uncorked. He held the bottle too high above the table and poured the deep burgundy liquid into Shiro’s glass with an expert flourish. When he repeated the same movement to fill all the other glasses without spilling a single drop, Shiro was even more impressed with him. The man was definitely dexterous.

Shiro couldn’t contain a soft hum of surprise at his first sip—he knew this taste. It was one of Ryner’s wines, from the same vintage as the bottle he’d shared with Red.

He looked up to find Red watching his reaction with a small, pleased smile. When Shiro risked quirking a brow at him, Red ducked his head, focusing a little too intently on the shadow cast by his own glass.

_God._ It wasn’t too conceited to read into this at least a _little_ bit, right?

Once the all the silverware had been placed—glittering gold pieces Shiro thought he recognized from Lord Hendrick’s last dinner party—Will Scarlet assisted Little John in tying Sendak’s legs and his bad arm to the chair with rough-hewn rope. Sendak’s grab at Will’s wrist ended in a grunt of pain as Little John snatched his hand and bent his thumb at a dangerous angle.

“Don’t,” the huge thief warned.

Shiro squinted harder at Little John—it was hard to tell with the blue bandanna muffling the thief’s mouth, but though the words were delivered gruffly, that voice wasn’t as deep as Shiro expected. Shiro wished the hood and the matching blue mask revealed even a sliver of the face underneath.

“Uh, your lordship.” Will Scarlet was now at Shiro’s side, rope held out a little too apologetically. Shiro put on his best disdainful lord expression, and felt instantly guilty when the young man actually flinched.

“Get on with it, then.”

He shifted his heels against the legs of his chair as Will scrambled to tie them, studying the thief’s bowed head. That wiry frame and short brown hair weren’t ringing any bells, but Will’s attitude reminded Shiro of how the cadets acted when he visited the Garrison. If he wasn’t an acquaintance, he at least had to know who Shiro was.

It would be so much easier to tell if they didn’t all wear those stupid masks.

Once Little John and Will were seated, Alan-a-Dale cleared his throat and gave his lute an experimental strum.

“Noble guests,” he intoned, accent flowery enough for a court bard, “might I have the honor of entertaining you with a humble song?”

At Red’s nod, he launched into a slightly embellished version of _the Ballad of Robin Hood_. Apart from a tendency to slide into a pitchy falsetto at the most unexpected moments, his singing voice was actually quite good. Shiro found himself tapping a finger against the soft weave of the tapestry while Alan performed.

The show was about halfway over when the little thief in green finally reappeared, slinking silently into the empty seat next to Shiro. A hint of rolled parchment peeked out past the leaf-shaped clasp of the green cloak.

_Ah._ Sure enough, Shiro caught a slight whiff of fresh ink layered over the mouth-watering aroma of cooking meat wafting from the kitchen. _This one’s their spy._

He tilted his head to get a better view of Green’s face, but the thief spared him the trouble—intelligent tawny eyes met his dead on, piercing through the veil of a green mask. Tousled strands of warm golden brown hair peeked out from under the oversized hood.

Shiro’s eyes narrowed—that coloring was more than familiar. From what he could see, this thief was a petite version of his friend Matt Holt.

He remembered the day the draft was announced, when he’d gone to the Holt home to see Matt off. He’d found the family upstairs in Katie’s room, Matt standing pale in the doorway while his mother Colleen gathered the freshly cut pieces of Katie’s long hair. Katie’s dress lay discarded on the floor, next to an upended crate of her belongings. Sam, sitting on her bed, announced in a hushed tone that Matt’s draft commission was gone.

It had required some fast talking on Shiro’s part to persuade Matt not to go after her, and risk exposing her ploy. Katie had always been smart; if anyone could survive the army at fourteen, Shiro believed she could. He _had_ to believe it.

It seemed she’d not only survived, but traded the army for a band of thieves.

Katie’s eyes went wide. She averted her face, burrowing deeper into her cloak. That was all right—for now, it was enough to know she was safe. Shiro would have words with her before this encounter was over.

First, there was dinner to attend to.

The man in yellow strode out of the kitchen carrying what had to be the largest plate of venison Shiro had ever seen. Generous slices of meat glowed like flawless pink jewels, shimmering. Shiro almost forgot everything else at the sight of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even eaten venison; nobles generally didn’t make a habit of disobeying the king’s edicts, if they wanted to keep their titles. Shiro was never one to say no to a meal, but sometimes he did get a little tired of lamb and mutton.

When the man set the platter in the center of the table, Shiro’s eyes caught the simple wooden cross dangling from a string of leather around his neck. He smiled to himself.

_Friar Tuck._

Will Scarlet frowned, craning his neck to peer back toward the kitchen.

“Wasn’t the butler with you?”

“Ahh, he… kinda tried to take the knife away from me.” Tuck rubbed his neck a little sheepishly. “He might have a headache later. I saved him a plate though, so it all works out?”

So Tuck was the kind of man who treated even his enemies with kindness. Shiro liked him more and more.

The first bite elevated Shiro’s opinion of him to archangel status.

A universe of color exploded on Shiro’s tongue as soon as he moved the fork past his lips. This _flavor_! This utterly flawless juiciness—the man had cooked the meat to satisfaction without losing a single drop of its inherent moisture. The gaminess of wild meat was completely gone, and each tender morsel melted in his mouth. And this combination of spices was positively mind-boggling, enhancing the natural taste of the deer without overwhelming it, and packing an after-punch that left him begging for the next bite.

Shiro obeyed his impulses, shoving another forkful into his mouth. If venison were always this delectable, he’d have more sympathy for poachers. There must have been something to the prayer Friar Tuck had murmured over the food before serving it, because this meal was a religious experience.

The only person not well on their way to a food coma was Sendak. The sheriff glowered at the meat on his plate as though it were a stain desecrating the Gisborne crest. He made no move to grasp the utensils glittering on his napkin.

_If he won’t eat it, I wish he’d just give it to me._

One other plate was only half consumed so far—Red was busy watching Shiro, a tiny smile playing at the edges of his lips.

“Does our humble meal suit your lordship’s taste?”

Obviously it wouldn’t be appropriate here, but God, Shiro missed hearing his nickname from that voice.

“I’ve never tasted better.” There was little point in lying—better if Sendak saw him as an honest man, anyway. He turned to Friar Tuck. “If you ever tire of life on the run, there’s a place for you in my kitchen.”

No offense to Rolo—Shiro always enjoyed his cooking, and Rolo was well acquainted with what Shiro liked—but this man was a gourmet magician. King Alfor himself would be lucky to have him as a chef.

Friar Tuck’s warm eyes glimmered with interest behind his mask. He seemed to be genuinely tempted to take Shiro up on his offer, until his smile dissolved in a wince of pain; someone (probably Will Scarlet, who sat across from him) must have kicked him under the table.

“T-thank you, your lordship. I’ll keep that in mind.”

At the other head of the table, Alan-a-Dale pointed his fork at Sendak, speaking with a full mouth. “You _must_ try to eat, Sheriff Sendak! It’s the height of boorishness to waste a hot meal!”

“I promise it’s not poisoned or anything,” Friar Tuck added. “That would be, like, super rude to the ingredients, you know?”

Sendak’s lip curled. “It is illegal for anyone outside the royal family to kill a deer. This will be just another footnote on the list when you hang.”

Red’s eyes met Little John’s across the table. Both of them smiled, clearly sharing some private joke.

“So you won’t eat it?” Red shrugged one shoulder, twirling his fork absently the same way he had his knife. “We don’t waste food. Lord Shirogane will have to eat your share.”

“I’m sure that will be no hardship for him,” Sendak muttered.

Shiro tried to look indignant, but it took all his decorum to keep from drooling at the new plate Red deftly slid in front of him.

“It’s funny you’re so stuck on the whole poaching thing,” Will Scarlet pointed out. “You know, since you steal from people all the time?”

“Rich, coming from the thieves who robbed the treasury,” Sendak spat. “Whom do you think that money came from? They may have bought your Robin Hood stunt for now, but they’ll soon see what you really are.”

“Dashing heroes who fight the forces of evil?” Will suggested.

“Common thieves,” Sendak said, “no different from any others.”

“I guess a _common thief_ could steal these plates out from under your nose, then?” Red asked.

Shiro nearly choked on his venison. _He really went there._

“You’re not a Gisborne, so they have to be from Prince Zarkon, right? Does he know you lost his gift to a common thief?”

A change came over Sendak at the mention of Zarkon’s name. His body stiffened, hand gripping the edge of the table. His eye took on an almost manic light as it focused on the plate in front of Red.

“…My plates,” Sendak grunted. “What will it take?”

“That depends. What are you willing to offer?”

Shiro could hear Sendak’s teeth grinding. “What will it take?”

“Hmm.” Red scraped his fingernail along a painted fang on the Gisborne crest. “Didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”

“I am loyal to my sovereign.” Sendak sneered. “A Marmora whelp wouldn’t understand.”

Maybe Shiro didn’t know the Marmora, but he knew loyalty. _“It’s not my secret to tell,”_ Red had said, keeping someone’s confidence in the face of Shiro’s prying. _“I know you,”_ he’d said, ready to risk his life saving a condemned traitor just because Shiro vouched for the man. Sendak was the one who didn’t understand.

A discreet nudge from Katie made Shiro blink down at his hand—he’d just bent his fork nearly in half. He hurried to adjust his grip, praying Sendak was too invested to notice.

_Hold it together, Shirogane._

Red’s aura had darkened. “Your _sovereign_ is King Alfor.”

“And where is King Alfor?” Sendak snapped. “The campaign was supposed to be finished months ago. If he still lives, why does he not return?”

“Clearly the reports were wrong,” Little John said.

Sendak struck at the opening like a coiled snake.

“This so-called holy war has gone on for five years. The kingdom’s resources run dry feeding an army that shows no sign of returning. The drought this year left so many fields barren, and civil unrest grows among a populace that struggles to eat. But still, the king doesn’t return from his crusades. Where is he when his people need him?” His single eye scanned the silent faces at the table. “When our enemies take advantage of his absence, who will defend us then?”

For once, Shiro couldn’t disagree. Retired soldiers and fresh-faced recruits at the Garrison all raved about the daring deeds of Alfor the Lionheart, but Shiro thought the absent king could stand to show a little more interest in his own kingdom. The king’s edict allowing outlaws to join the army had caused quite an uproar, but that so-called second chance only bought more soldiers to die for him. Shiro still felt sick every time he remembered the day criers from the capital had arrived with the news; he’d known right away that Keith would go, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“King Alfor has a daughter, doesn’t he?” Katie asked. “Why isn’t she on the throne?”

Shiro might have imagined it, but he thought Little John flinched.

“The princess?” Sendak didn’t roll his eye, but it was a near thing. “Her highness remains cloistered in her chambers, in constant prayer for her father’s safety. No one outside her personal servants has seen her for months. She shows no interest in running her kingdom.”

If Shiro wasn’t watching closely, he would’ve missed the way Red’s eyes darted briefly toward Little John’s bowed head. The mustached minstrel at the other end of the table had gone strangely quiet as well since the conversation began. It seemed these three knew something the others didn’t—maybe something connected to the real reason their group opposed the prince.

Shiro looked at Little John with renewed interest. _Who are you?_

Red tilted his empty plate on its edge, setting it spinning between his hands. Shiro wondered if it was the same one he’d nearly shattered.

“I’ll make you a deal, Sendak, since you provided the venue for our party.”

Red encompassed the rest of his band with a look, and made a twirling gesture with his finger. One by one, each of the other thieves copied his actions and set their own plates spinning, with varying degrees of success. Alan-a-Dale’s plate held steady on its axis, whirling even faster than Red’s, while Katie struggled to keep hers upright. Will Scarlet’s plate tread a dangerous line along the edge of the table.

For one reckless instant, Shiro wanted to see if he could get a plate to spin, too. Instead, he carefully stacked his two plates and pulled them closer in front of him.

He’d just have to play with his own dinnerware at home later. Nyma would love it.

“What was this month’s tax burden? Five gold pieces?” Red’s teeth glinted like fangs in the sunlight. “You’ll pay double. For each plate.”

Sendak tracked Red’s plate like a snake under hypnosis. “That’s absurd.”

“It’s my final offer.”

Shiro could see cold sweat dripping down Sendak’s temple. Red’s plate meandered slowly across the table, curving closer and closer to the inevitable drop. There would be no acrobatic saves, this time.

Sendak’s eye closed. “I’ll pay it.”

Red stilled the plate between two fingers. A small sigh of relief eased past Katie’s lips as everyone else followed his lead.

“Done.” Red grinned, returning the plate to its proper position. “Let’s finish this transaction in private. We don’t want Lord Shirogane offering to buy them for you.”

_Touché._ Shiro took the invitation to play along. “What about the urn you stole from me? Will you let me buy that back?”

“Bold of you to assume we still have it.” Red leaned his chin against his hand, smiling sweetly. The movement brought his face close enough for Shiro to see the humor sparkling in his eyes. “What if we already sold it?”

A little demonstration of righteous fury couldn’t hurt. Shiro let his fingers curl into a fist on the tabletop, grasping the fringe at the end of the tapestry. He let the slightest hint of a growl leak into his tone.

“You would regret that.”

A suggestion of Red’s lifted brow peeked over the edge of his mask. “Is that a threat?”

Shiro drifted closer, his smile tight-lipped. “More of a promise.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Red drawled. His voice had dropped low, as though he and Shiro were the only two people at the table. Shiro desperately wished that were actually true.

_I’m not imagining this, right?_

His exit was arranged too quickly. Katie volunteered to escort him out, slicing apart the ropes that bound his ankles with a pair of blades that dropped from her sleeves. A sharp tug at the back of his vest dragged him to his feet.

“Thank you for a riveting afternoon, Sheriff,” he said. “I assume this will be our little secret?”

Sendak nodded stiffly. “Please.”

The last things Shiro saw before he was hustled from the room were Red’s trademark salute and crooked grin.

Katie kept one blade wedged in a gap between his ribs and another poised over his kidney until they made it safely to the stable, where Atlas waited patiently. Her arms dropped, weapons disappearing back inside her sleeves as she fell into step beside him.

“Aw, man.” She threw back her head, letting the green hood fall around her shoulders. Her short hair stuck out wildly in different directions. “How’d you know it was me?”

“I see your brother all the time.” Shiro poked the wrinkle between her brows. “You have the same eyes.”

Katie sulked, shoulders hunched and arms crossed, although her face didn’t look entirely displeased. “And here I thought it was a good disguise.”

“It is! You look just like Matt when he was your age. And wasn’t that the point?”

“I guess.”

Shiro ruffled her flyaway hair. “Does he know you’re back?”

“Mm.” A grudging smile pushed at the corners of her lips. “We’re exchanging messages.”

Shiro was equal parts annoyed and impressed that Matt hadn’t dropped a clue during their visits. What, did Matt think he couldn’t keep a secret?

“What about your mom?”

Katie’s smile twisted into grimace. “She… knows, too. I talked to her the night we hit the treasury. She told me to do what I feel is right… and I’m grounded for at least a year after I come home.”

Shiro winced in sympathy. “My condolences.”

Colleen Holt was a formidable woman. She kept the mill running at top efficiency without the help of her husband and son, and still had time to act as a leader and advisor in Nottingham, all while carrying out her own research on plants and natural remedies. The medicines and herbal tea blends she dispensed were more widely trusted than anything the town physician could prescribe.

Katie shrugged. “If it means I can help Dad, I don’t mind being Mom’s slave for a year.” She stepped closer so that her shoulder nudged against his forearm, gazing up at him almost shyly. “I heard what you’re trying to do for him, by the way. Thanks.”

“Hey, what’s family for?”

He stumbled back a step when Katie barreled into his middle, both arms flung tight around him. She squeezed with a strength far beyond her stature, burrowing her face into his chest.

A lump lodged in Shiro’s throat as he hugged her back. After so many years apart, seeing her again, talking to her like this, felt surreal. She was eighteen, now, a grown woman who’d survived the army and a foreign war, and came back capable in ways he could only imagine. But right now, while she clung to him like this, he knew she was still the little girl he used to carry around on his back. He smiled, remembering the childlike bluntness with which she’d informed Matt that she preferred to be carried by Shiro, because “the view was better.”

“Don’t tell Matt, but you’re my favorite brother.”

Shiro snorted—now she was a mind reader, too. “Only if I want to see him cry.”

Katie giggled. They drew apart, but Shiro’s hand remained on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Hey, Katie. Can I ask you something? While you were with the king’s army, did you ever run into Keith?”

Katie frowned up at him, searching his eyes. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she finally spoke.

“He’s alive.” She hesitated. “At least, he was the last time I saw him.”

Relief washed over Shiro, nearly taking out his knees. He needed his grip on Katie’s shoulder to remain standing. He’d always believed it. He thought he knew, but…

“Thank you,” he breathed.

Katie continued to study his face, chewing on her bottom lip. Again, she started to say something, but seemed to think better of it.

“Hey… take care of yourself, okay?” Her fingers curled in his sleeve. “I’m really happy you’re on our side. But if anything happened to you because of us, he… our leader… wouldn’t be able to stand it.” She stared up at him earnestly, eyes swimming. “And neither would I.”

His thumb rubbed soothingly into the bend of her neck. “I know. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

She sucked in a wet breath, nodding, and wiped at her eyes.

Shiro fidgeted, glancing back toward the house. “Is Red… is your leader going to be out soon? I’d like to thank him for earlier.”

Katie smirked. “Wouldn’t you rather do that without the rest of us watching?”

“Ah.” Shiro grinned sheepishly. She’d always been a little too sharp. “Was I that obvious?”

“It wasn’t just you.” And as though _that_ hadn’t sent a jolt through his blood, she gave him a shove that nearly bowled him over. She’d always been a little too strong for her size, too. “Now _go_. I’m sure he’ll drop by to see you later.”

If Katie Holt said so, it had to be true.  
  
  


The mood was relaxed when the band of thieves passed safely into the forest, well out of earshot of Sendak’s home. Waning sunlight speckled the underbrush in comforting shades of pink and orange, limning Keith’s path as he picked his way over fallen branches. He didn’t expect Sendak to follow them, but he took care not to leave a trail, just in case.

After retrieving the promised gold from Sendak’s personal safe, they’d dumped the plates into the kitchen sink before tying Sendak’s right arm to the back of his chair. Hunk had carried the unconscious butler to the table and bound his dangling limbs to the chair Shiro had vacated, sliding a cold platter of meat in front of him. Their departure was delayed by Hunk’s refusal to leave the kitchen a mess, but it gave Keith time to slip into Sendak’s study and pluck the lone Marmora knife from the wall.

The knife burned a line against Keith’s calf where he’d slipped it inside his boot. What did one do with a fallen Blade’s knife? Should he bury it? Find a way to send it back to the tribe? He wished he could contact his mother; there were so many things he still didn’t know about his heritage. About her.

Maybe, after this was all over, they’d have time.

Lance sidled up next to Hunk, poking at one of the overstuffed packs he was carrying.

“Is it just me, or is this bag a lot bigger than it was when we came?”

Hunk blazed into a picture of righteous indignation.

“Okay, so hear me out—the guy had to have at least thirty containers of rare spices in that cabinet, and every single one of them was covered in dust! Like, what’s the point of having them if you’re not gonna enjoy them? He had _juniberry extract_ , Lance. That only grows in the royal gardens! It would be a sin to let this stuff waste away.” He clutched the satchel to his chest. “I only did what any chef would do.”

“Yeah, okay, easy, buddy.” Lance rubbed Hunk’s shoulder soothingly. “You did the right thing.”

Coran nodded sagely, twirling his mustache. “One man’s trash is another’s treasure, as they say! I’m sure you’ll put those spices to much better use than the sheriff would have.”

Keith drifted closer to Allura. Her intent gaze was locked on the ground beneath her feet, lips pressed into a thin line. Both of her hands curled tight around the smooth wood of her staff.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Are you okay?”

She managed a tense smile. “I think so. I just have many things to think about.” Her eyes returned to the path under her boots, a crease forming in her smooth brow. “Sendak is by no means an honorable man, but not everything he said was wrong. A ruler’s place is with his people. Perhaps… perhaps my father was wrong, to leave them behind for this war.”

Keith remained silent—she hadn’t asked for his opinion, and it certainly wasn’t his place to offer one. It took everything he had just to act as the leader of their small band, and he still stooped under the dragging weight of unworthiness always clinging to his back. Over the years he’d learned to carry it, but that didn’t mean it ever stopped whispering in his ear, reminding him of all his mistakes and failings. He couldn’t imagine bearing the lives of an entire kingdom on his shoulders.

“And now, I can’t help but wonder if I am making the same mistake.” Allura’s proud shoulders drooped. “I could have stayed at the castle, found another way to fight for the throne. Instead, I left Zarkon free to do with this kingdom as he pleases. Perhaps I _am_ unfit to rule, as they say.”

Keith might not know about ruling kingdoms, but survival was something he understood.

“Maybe you could’ve found a way to stand up to Zarkon, if you stayed. Or maybe you’d be dead.” He shrugged, hands buried in the pockets of his cloak. “And it’s not like you left your people behind. You’re still here, fighting _alongside_ us. That’s gotta count for something.”

Allura’s lips relaxed into another smile, more real this time. “I suppose you’re right. I just feel that I should be doing more. I always believed so strongly in my positon, in what I thought was mine by right.” She sighed softly. “I never realized how powerless I am alone.”

Keith rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve done the whole fighting alone thing. It took me a long time to learn that it didn’t mean I was stronger.” His fingers curled into a fist, the brand seeming to pulse against his skin. “Everybody’s powerless alone. Even the king wouldn’t have any power without somebody willing to bow to him. Needing other people’s help doesn’t mean you’re weak—it just means you’re human.”

When he looked at Allura again, the wonder in her eyes almost made him miss a step.

“You are very wise, Keith.” The skin around her eyes crinkled with the warmth of her smile. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed by the compliment, or a little offended by her obvious surprise. He’d admit that emotional conversations weren’t his forte, but even he could say something good now and then—as his Pop used to say, even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. He was _trying_ , dammit.

“Keith! There you are.”

Hunk put an end to Keith’s inner grumbling by jogging up to join them. He presented a small pan balanced on one hand, containing a simple but delicious-looking cake. Keith thought he smelled a hint of lemon. “This is for Lord Shirogane. You know, since he’s been such a big help and all.”

_When did he have time to bake that?_

“Why didn’t you give it to him yourself?”

“Right, because giving him a cake in front of Sendak would’ve been _really_ subtle.” Hunk all but shoved the pan into Keith’s arms. “Not that it’s my business or anything, but you guys might wanna be more careful next time. It’s fine if you wanna make out with your eyes or whatever, but if I can see it, so can Sendak, y’know?”

“Wait, _what_?” The cake nearly slipped from Keith’s hands. He barely registered Hunk’s warning hiss as he scrambled to adjust his grip.

“Oh- _ho_ ,” Lance crowed, popping his head over Hunk’s shoulder. His grin was toothier than the wolf. “Is _that_ how it is?”

“It’s not like that! He’s—”

Hunk patted Keith’s shoulder. “No judgment here, he seems like a really great guy. I’m rooting for you and all. Just be a little more discreet, yeah?”

Keith could only stare at Hunk’s benevolent smile, hands white-knuckled around the cake pan. This had to be a bad dream. Maybe a drunken hallucination. He didn’t think he drank _that_ much wine, but maybe…

Allura caught both of his shoulders from behind, giving him a squeeze that bordered on painful.

“I’m so excited for you, Keith!” she gushed. “You’ll have to tell me _everything_ when you return.”

Coran waved both arms from behind her. Weighed down as he was by stolen treasures, he looked a bit like a peacock trying to take flight. “Give his lordship our warmest regards! Don’t do anything _too_ untoward!”

_Untoward!?_

“Wait.” Keith’s head spun. They expected him to go _now_? Not that he didn’t want a reason to see Shiro again, but…

He searched Allura’s face. Any signs of anxiety had vanished from her expression, replaced by starlight sparkling in her eyes. She blinked, understanding dawning, and gave him a soft smile.

“Go to him. I’ll be all right.” She squeezed his shoulders once more before she released him, trotting toward Coran to take one of his bags. Hunk followed with a heavy thump on Keith’s back.

“Man, this explains a _lot_.” Lance slung an arm around Keith’s shoulders, leaning too close to whisper conspiratorially. “You know if you ever need any advice, I’m here for you?”

Keith shoved his hand into Lance’s face, pushing him away. “Yeah, talk to me again when you actually make progress with Allura.”

Lance’s cheeks flared redder than his stupid silk cloak. He sputtered. “That’s—I’ve made progress!”

“Sure.” Keith aimed a kick at his knee, earning a satisfying yelp for his trouble. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He stalked away before Lance could get another word in.

Pidge hung back from the others, toying with the too-long sleeves of her green cloak. When she lifted her face at Keith’s approach, the anxious look in her eyes gave him pause.

“Pidge? What—”

“He asked about you,” she blurted. “If I ever saw you while I was with the army. He looked so _hopeful_ , Keith. I had to tell him _something_.”

The flush drained from Keith’s face. Breath rasped painfully in his throat. “What did you say?”

“That you were alive last time I saw you.” Her chin raised defiantly. “It wasn’t a lie. I don’t think he caught on, but I just… thought you should know.”

The tension in Keith’s body deflated, slowly, until he thought he might sway on his feet. The depth of his own relief surprised him.

Pidge’s brows came together in that earnest, worried look he couldn’t face. “Keith, he… when I told him you were alive, he looked like he was about to cry. He still really misses you.”

Keith sighed. He shifted the cake pan to balance against his left arm so he could touch her shoulder with his right. “I’m sorry, Pidge. I can’t tell him. He wouldn’t look at me the same way.”

Her lips twisted into a frown. “You don’t know that for sure. You’re not a kid anymore, and he’s—”

“Please.” His grip squeezed around her shoulder. “I just wanna see this through as far as I can. Okay?”

“Fine.” Pidge sniffed, glaring down at his boots. “I just want both of you to be happy.”

What did he do to earn so many people who cared about him? Keith’s smile was a little wobbly. “I know. Thanks.”

She ducked away from his hand, shuffling out of his path. When she looked up again, a hint of her usual mischief returned to her eyes.

“Well. Have fun, _Red_.”

  
  


Curled up in his grandfather’s favorite chair, Shiro balanced Volume 2 of Nomadic Tribes of the East against his knee, while a soft evening breeze through the open window ruffled his hair. He liked to think the worn leather still smelled a little like his grandfather’s pipe smoke, even after all these years. Shiro had never developed a taste for it, himself, but he’d never disliked the smell.

The book’s entry about the Marmora was only minimally enlightening. They were an ancient tribe, highly secretive and wary of outsiders, and renowned fighters, often sought out as mercenaries in times of war. In combat, they moved as silently as shadows, their features concealed by full face masks unique to the wearer. These masks remained in place even among clan members, removed only in front of immediate family and close friends or lovers. Their most elite warriors, a select group known as the Blade, were said to possess unparalleled skills with the sword.

It explained the wicked grace with which Red moved, as well as his skill with the magic blade he possessed. It did _not_ explain what someone with Marmora blood was doing in a place like Nottingham.

He hated the little twinge of disappointment he’d felt upon learning Red was Marmora. It wasn’t that he disliked the idea in itself—on the contrary, belonging to a secret warrior clan only made Red more intriguing. No, as much as Shiro wanted to deny it, that tiny tremor of unease he felt was because Red’s Marmora lineage meant that Red probably wasn’t Keith. He didn’t know everything about Keith, but he liked to think he knew quite a bit. He would’ve known if Keith were Marmora, right?

Shiro closed the book, letting his head fall back against the chair. He knew forcing Red into a mold wasn’t fair, to either of them. But sometimes, the way Red acted—the way he called Shiro _old timer_ , or ducked his head when he was embarrassed—felt so familiar it made Shiro’s chest ache. And when Red let slip that he used to live in Nottingham…

Sighing, Shiro opened his eyes to find the sightless gaze of the first Lord Shirogane staring back at him. The table by the window felt too empty without the urn, so Shiro had moved the bust there to compensate.

Tonight, he was starting to regret that decision—the statue’s blank gaze felt vaguely judgmental.

Shiro sipped from the lukewarm teacup he’d left next to the bust, sticking his tongue out in distaste. He was the one who’d decided to stop taking sugar in his tea in favor of using it elsewhere, but the bland, bitter flavor just wasn’t satisfying. Maybe he could ask Colleen Holt to recommend a naturally sweet blend the next time he was in town.

Keith would like it, though. When it came to food, he had as much of a sweet tooth as Shiro, but somehow that preference didn’t translate to his tea. Shiro always made a show of liberally dumping sugar into his cup, just to see the way Keith’s nose wrinkled.

He wondered what Keith looked like, five years later. Was his messy dark hair still cropped close behind his ears, or had he let it get long? He’d always been a little small for his age—was he as tall as Shiro now? Maybe even taller?

Shiro could take his time musing on it, now that he knew Keith was alive.

“You shouldn’t leave your window open. A thief could get in.”

Red leaned casually against the window frame, lantern light dancing across his masked face. His hood was down, windswept hair hanging loose to his shoulders, and his teeth flashed in a smirk that had Shiro’s heart stuttering. Really, was it even possible for a person to be so effortlessly beautiful? Maybe it was good that he kept his mask on—seeing him without it might be dangerous.

Shiro swallowed down his heart before it galloped out of his throat. Years of his grandfather’s training kept his voice steady as he replied: “If you see one, would you chase them off for me?”

Red’s soft snort was absurdly cute. He hopped through the window, cloak fluttering behind him like a butterfly’s wings. Only then did Shiro notice he wasn’t empty-handed—a small pan, about as broad as Shiro’s hand, held a golden confection topped with a burst of creamy white. It smelled like sugary heaven. Shiro zoned in on the treat like a starving man.

“Is that for me?”

Red glanced at the cake as though just remembering he held it. “Nah, I was planning to eat it in front of you and gloat.”

_Oh, is this the game we’re playing?_

Shiro tucked the book safely into the crook of his chair and leaned forward, fixing Red with his best attempt at sad puppy eyes. It was a face that could break even Nyma, too powerful to be used unless the situation was truly dire.

Red’s lips twitched, though Shiro could tell he was trying to keep a straight face. Shiro added an extra layer of pout for good measure.

“ _Wow_ ,” Red huffed finally, setting his smile free. “You’re such a brat.”

Shiro didn’t bother hiding his satisfaction as Red placed the cake in his waiting palm. He balanced the pan on his thigh and broke off a tantalizingly soft piece, which he popped eagerly into his mouth.

The explosion of lemon tang and fluffy cream almost ascended him to the afterlife. Shiro moaned, eyes rolling back into his head.

“Did Friar Tuck make this?” he asked, once he felt capable of speech. It took all his restraint to keep from shoving the rest of the cake into his mouth like a ravenous wolf.

Red blinked—though he hadn’t eaten a bite, he looked as distracted as Shiro felt. “Huh?”

“Friar Tuck. The big guy who served our meal earlier.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, it was him. He wanted to thank you for playing along.”

“Feed me like this, and I’ll do whatever you want,” Shiro confessed. He tore off another small piece, letting it linger on his tongue this time to fully absorb the delightful spongey texture. _God_ , the cake to cream ratio was unspeakable.

Red’s proximity made it even better—the thief had moved a little closer, propping his hip against the arm of Shiro’s chair. If Shiro leaned just slightly to the left, his head would be resting against Red’s arm. The sugar rush and the warmth in Red’s eyes made it hard to remember why he shouldn’t try it.

“So do we all have nicknames now?” There was definitely a tease in Red’s question. It was only proper for Shiro to respond in kind.

“Of course. You have the whole gang.” Shiro listed them off on cream-stained fingers. “There’s Friar Tuck, Alan-a-Dale with the cape, the miller’s son”— _daughter_ —“Will Scarlet with the arrows, Little John with the staff, and of course Red Riding Hood—”

He curled his body around the cake before Red could snatch it. When the thief lunged across the arm of the chair, Shiro parried with a foot against his chest. Red captured Shiro’s leg in a squeezing grip and _pulled_. With an undignified yelp, Shiro slipped onto his back. The chair tilted under their combined weight, clunking into the side table.

Shiro’s soul flatlined when he saw the statue wobbling toward certain doom. His grandfather really would haunt him this time.

_“Shit!”_

Red threw his body backwards, into the statue’s trajectory. One hand caught the empty teacup; the other stretched beneath the falling statue, braced for impact. Shiro knew how heavy that statue was—he and Rolo together had struggled to lift it. It wouldn’t be enough.

He shoved the rest of the cake into his mouth and lurched from the chair, hand stretched out to cradle the statue’s marble topknot.

They both grunted under the weight of carved stone. Their arms trembled, and Shiro was pretty sure he’d strained his wrist, but the bust rested safely in their hands.

For a moment, neither of them dared to move. The room was silent save for the sound of their own labored breathing and the mocking hoot of a lonely owl. When Shiro looked at Red, he saw what had to be a mirror of his own panicked expression.

Then both of them burst out laughing.

“Did you put that _whole cake_ in your mouth?”

“I needed a free hand!”

“You couldn’t just put it down?”

“What if it got squished?”

They eased the bust back onto the end table, still giggling in fits. Red draped over the statue’s head as though he didn’t have the strength to hold himself up. Shiro patted his back before retrieving the empty cake pan from the floor.

“Damn, this guy is _heavy_.” Red knocked his fist against the bust’s stately head. His mirth had quieted, but when he saw Shiro licking lemony crumbs from his fingers, he let out another snort of laughter. “ _Wow_. Are you an animal?”

Shiro pouted. “I wanted to savor it.”

“Aw.” Red patted Shiro’s forearm consolingly, the warmth of his touch sizzling through Shiro’s sleeve. “I’ll have the good friar make you another one, okay?”

Shiro tried not to look too eager—he didn’t want to seem _too_ greedy.

“You don’t need to do that,” he hedged.

Red chuckled again, the sound curling low and rich in Shiro’s stomach. Something about his laugh grasped hold of Shiro’s heart and wouldn’t let go, like a faded dream he could almost remember. He wanted to chase after that sound, to hear it over and over again, until it was as familiar to him as the sound of his own breathing.

“It’s the least I can do for my favorite accomplice.” Red drifted a step closer, into Shiro’s space. Amusement glimmered in his dusk-colored eyes. “Here, you got some on your face.”

His callused thumb rubbed the corner of Shiro’s mouth, knuckles brushing hot against Shiro’s cheek. While Shiro’s brain was still turning somersaults, Red popped his thumb into his own mouth and licked off the cream with an appreciative noise and a flash of a pink tongue. His thick brows peeked out past the border of his mask, eyes widening in obvious delight.

He slipped his thumb out of his mouth, lips parted to make some comment, but the words never left his throat. Shiro’s fingers wrapped around Red’s slender wrist, body tipping forward to capture his mouth in a kiss.

Red’s lips were warm, chapped, and a little bit moist, and Shiro tasted a sugary tang that fizzed under his skin. He drew back slowly, licking his own lips to catch every lingering hint of the flavor.

His lashes lifted to find Red frozen, eyes blown wide.

Shiro’s frantic heart stuttered to an awkward halt.

_Oh._

_Oh, shit._

Of course Red was shocked—who wouldn’t be, getting kissed out of nowhere like that?

Shiro dropped Red’s wrist as though it singed his fingers, stumbling back as far as he could—which wasn’t very far. His hip collided with the table, causing the bust to totter dangerously again. It may as well fall and shatter on the floor, or better yet, drop straight onto Shiro’s foot. It was the least he deserved, after screwing up so spectacularly. His knuckles pressed hard to his traitorous mouth.

“I’m so sorry!” He should have asked first, should have read the mood, should have remembered he’d never been good at this whole romance thing to begin with. He’d be lucky if Red ever spoke to him again. “Please, Red. I—”

Two swift strides of Red’s long legs carried him back into Shiro’s space. He snagged Shiro’s collar roughly in both hands, an indigo flame blazing in his eyes. Shiro wanted to be roasted alive.

“Sorry?” Red croaked. “For what?”

His lips slammed into Shiro’s hard enough to rattle his teeth.

The impact made Shiro’s eyes water. He stumbled sideways, catching Red’s hip in his hand and holding tight. Red shoved their mouths together as firmly as he could, until his nose jabbed into Shiro’s cheek. His eyes were squeezed shut and his fists pulled Shiro’s collar taut against the back of his neck.

It was uncomfortable, and clumsy as hell, and most definitely the best kiss Shiro ever had.

The kiss ended when Red pulled back so abruptly that Shiro almost fell into him. He unhooked his fingers from Shiro’s ruined shirt and stepped away, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth.

Shiro drooped against the arm of the chair. Red’s kiss was like a lightning strike, sudden and devastating, leaving his lips tingling and his knees wobbly. He was pretty sure his neck had bent in a way it wasn’t supposed to, and he tasted a pinch of iron from biting his tongue, but he couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

Red stared for a moment, chest heaving, before his gaze dropped to the floor.

“Uh,” he said eloquently. His ears and neck burned scarlet as bright as his cloak.

He threw up his hood, mumbled a “See you later,” and fled into the night.

_I’d prefer sooner, rather than later._

Laughing, Shiro collapsed into his chair. His fingers brushed his still-throbbing lips.

All things considered, he thought that went pretty well. His body felt alive in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. He’d need to work off some of this excess energy in the courtyard, once his legs could move again.

As his eyes caught on the forgotten cake pan, a thought occurred that made him smile.

“Does this make me Maid Marian?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic passed 100 kudos with the previous chapter. Considering my original hope was that maybe 10 people might read it, I'm beyond honored and excited to have gotten this much support. Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's retweeted, left kudos, and commented so far! <3 <3 <3 I vow to be better about responding from now on!
> 
> Next time, Shiro pays a visit to Pidge's other favorite brother. : )


	6. Chapter 6

Shiro’s favorite time to visit the university was in the early afternoon, when the sunlight settled warm and golden over the twin towers of stone that crowned the building’s face. The lunch rush was over by then, allowing the senior monks and their students free time to spend absorbed in individual projects. Small clusters of men in matching brown robes scattered throughout the courtyard and libraries, heads bent together over bubbling beakers or open books, or scribbling doggedly on scrolls held down by paper weights, fingers and faces stained with black ink.

Usually, Shiro would wander close to a group or two—monks and students alike were always thrilled to ramble about their research topics, and Shiro was more than happy to humor them—but today he walked through at a brisk pace, politely excusing himself when anyone spotted him. He scaled the spiral staircase of the East Tower two steps at a time until he reached the domed observatory at the top floor.

Matt Holt hunched over his usual corner table, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth as he sanded the smooth wood of a wheel about the size of his head. His wild golden-brown hair, grown well past his shoulders now, was gathered back in a haphazard tail, and a large sooty smudge marred his right cheek.

Shiro had to smile—more often than not, he’d entered the Holt house to find Matt and Katie with faces completely blackened, their hazelnut hair singed at the edges. The vague smell of something burning always clung to the Holts in those days, even after Colleen made them scrub themselves spotless. Shiro had spent too many visits helping the siblings clean up after whatever disaster their latest experiment had wrought.

He remembered dropping by to check on Keith, a few days after Keith had moved in with the Holts. He’d found Keith on the roof, of all places, helping Matt patch a gaping, charred hole. When Shiro asked Keith how he was settling in, Keith’s expression of blank-eyed horror was as amusing as it was pitiful.

At least the university provided a controlled environment for Matt to wreak havoc. His table was covered in gears and odd tools Shiro couldn’t imagine a use for. He didn’t even want to know what kind of harebrained idea Matt was cooking up this time—another device to do Matt’s chores for him, no doubt, so Matt would have more time to work on star charts in the evenings. Matt’s previous accomplishments—an automated wood chopper, and a device which drew water from the ancient well with one flick of a lever—had made Matt very popular with the other apprentice monks. The senior monks, for their part, had _almost_ forgiven Matt for the incident with the exploding indoor water heater. At Shiro’s last visit, Matt assured him that the apprentice baths would be rebuilt in time for winter.

“Shiro!” Matt’s face broke into a grin. He wiped his hands on his robes and bustled around the table to give Shiro a hug. “I was wondering when you’d show up. It’s been a while.”

Shiro returned the hug, shooting an apologetic grin at the other two monks using the room. “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

“Right, keeping the sheriff entertained and stuff?” Matt made a face. “Your sacrifice shall not go unremembered.”

“How have _you_ been, Matt?” Shiro turned his brightest, most innocent smile on Matt at full power. “Heard from Katie lately?”

It was worth it to see the way the color drained from Matt’s cheeks. His eyes, so like his sister’s, widened slowly, like a spreading puddle of spilled ink. He smacked a hand over his face.

“Shit,” he said, with feeling.

“Language, Matthew,” sighed Father Antok. The senior monk didn’t look up from the chart he was copying at the center table.

Matt snagged Shiro’s wrist, dragging him back toward the narrow stairs. “Come on. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

Shiro let Matt lead him down the steps, through the kitchen, saturated with the succulent aroma of freshly baked bread, and into the private chapel where the students held morning and evening services. A kaleidoscope of light painted the simple wooden pews in crystalline patterns of rose, orange, and green. Six exquisite stained glass windows decorated the walls, three to a side, with images of saints.

Shiro had always loved the chapel. There was a peaceful hush about it, seemingly untouched by the chaos plaguing the rest of the world. The aisles were always swept clean, the stained glass shimmered with care, and a light fragrance of incense lingered on the air, just enough to soothe away his tension. The stately church in the center of Nottingham was beautiful in its own way, but it lacked the inviting atmosphere he sensed here.

Matt directed Shiro into the second row on the left side, urging him to sit with a perfunctory tug on his arm.

“We should be okay in here until dinner,” Matt muttered, half to himself. He swiveled his body to face Shiro, one leg tucked under himself on the pew. Father Antok would have scolded him for putting his sandal up on the seat. “So you saw Pidge, huh? I kinda figured it wouldn’t take long.”

Shiro made himself comfortable, resting his arm along the back of the pew. His too-bright smile remained in place.

“We met when she and her friends kidnapped me to a dinner party at the sheriff’s house.”

Matt flinched. “Damn. I bet Sendak was royally pissed.”

“That’s an understatement. When were you planning to tell me she was back?”

Matt groaned, banging his forehead against the carved wood. “I _knew_ I should’ve told you. I’m sorry. It’s just, she told me it’s a secret, and I promised her on penalty of death that I wouldn’t say anything to anybody. Cross my heart and all that stuff. I swear it was nothing personal.”

Far be it from Shiro to begrudge a sibling pact. He may as well let Matt off the hook, this time.

“I suppose I forgive you.”

Matt rolled his eyes at Shiro’s tone. “How magnanimous of you.”

“I _am_ generous like that,” Shiro agreed. “If you give me a loaf of whatever they’re baking, I won’t even hold a grudge.”

“I’ll make it two loaves, just for you.” Matt leaned forward, eyes shining. “But hey, now that you know, I can talk about it as much as I want. My little sister’s a hero of justice! Is that the coolest thing ever, or what?”

Shiro chuckled. “It _is_ pretty cool.”

“Honestly, she makes me wonder what I’ve been doing all this time.” Matt sagged back against the pew with a heavy sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful to Father Antok. If he didn’t speak up when the sheriff’s men came for me, I’d be locked in some dingy dungeon somewhere like Dad. I like it here—it’s not that I feel trapped or anything. It’s just… when I look at Katie playing Robin Hood, I feel like I should be doing more. She has a real chance to help Dad—to help everyone. And here I am, blowing things up.”

“You’re pursuing your own interests,” Shiro said gently. “There’s no shame in that.”

“I guess. But it’s not just Katie. Mom’s running the mill by herself now, and you still haven’t punched Sendak in the face. And I’m just…” Matt shrugged.

Shiro knew that feeling too well—the helplessness of lying in bed, letting others care for him. The shame of knowing he alone was kept safe by his status and his family name while the people he loved most disappeared one by one. In the days after his accident, he would have done anything just to feel useful again.

Matt straightened, scrubbing his hands through his hair with a grimace. “Anyway, whining about it won’t change anything. What’s going on with _you_?”

“What about me?”

“You seem…” Matt waggled his fingers vaguely in Shiro’s direction, squinting. “ _Happy_.”

Shiro huffed, feigning insult. “Do I usually walk around under a cloud of despair?”

“You know what I mean! You have an _aura_!” Matt accused.

Stalling, Shiro gave Matt a considering look. Matt was Katie’s brother—he should already know most of the important details about their group, and Shiro’s role in the recent robberies. Telling him wouldn’t put either of them in any more danger than they were already facing. And he’d more than proven he could keep a secret.

Besides, if Shiro said he wasn’t _dying_ to confide in someone, he’d be lying.

“Actually…” Shiro grinned, cheeks a little warm. “I’m sort of seeing someone.”

Matt’s face went blank for fully thirty seconds. Then he jumped to his feet, grabbed Shiro’s arm again, and dragged him from the pew and through a side door. Before Shiro realized what was happening, Matt had shoved him into an empty confessional booth and yanked the curtain closed, drenching him in shadows.

“Uh, Matt?”

Sounds of shuffling and thumping ensued before Matt dragged open the grate on the priest’s side of the booth.

“Matt, I don’t think this is—”

“Hush, my son,” Matt chastised, adopting his best Father Antok impression. “Please, tell me all.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how it works. And you’re not qualified to take confession.”

“Don’t fret over such minor details! Now, speak.”

Shiro laughed. “Okay, if you _really_ want to know… has Katie told you anything about her group?”

“Only a little. Wait!” Matt let out an exaggerated gasp. “It’s the leader, isn’t it? The one who robbed the treasury!”

Suddenly, Shiro found himself appreciating the darkness of the confessional booth. If Matt saw him blushing like a lovesick teenager, he’d never hear the end of it.

“Are you gonna let me talk, or what?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Matt cleared his throat and deepened his voice again. “Do continue.”

Shiro smiled to himself. “We haven’t said anything _officially_ , but we’ve met up a few times now.”

Matt nodded eagerly on the other side of the grate. “Go on?”

 

When Red didn’t return the night after the kiss, Shiro told himself not to be disappointed. The thieves were probably lying low after their impromptu dinner party the day before. Sendak hadn’t made any moves yet, but they couldn’t be too careful.

On the second night, Shiro sat in the library until almost midnight, basking in the cool breeze through the open window. He kept a book of local legends open on his lap, but he barely made it three pages before he realized he hadn’t processed a single word he’d read. Eventually he drifted off in his grandfather’s chair, earning a stiff neck and a lecture from both Rolo and Nyma when they found him there the next morning.

When the painted skies of the third sunset faded into inky darkness, he knew he was being silly. Red was obviously busy stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, and whatever else noble thieves did with their time. His absence did _not_ mean he’d decided what happened between them was a terrible mistake and never wanted to see Shiro again. He would come back when he was ready. Probably. Shiro banished any nagging misgivings from his mind as he doused the lantern and closed the window, and he only looked longingly over his shoulder once when he left the room.

Okay, maybe twice.

Still, all the logic in the world couldn’t stop Shiro from pining a little. And by a _little_ , he meant dreaming about Red every night, which he had to admit was infinitely preferable to the nightmares of his arm on fire that usually plagued his sleep.

The fourth evening since The Incident found Shiro at a different dinner party, thrown by Lady Sanda to celebrate the return of her stolen locket. Fake smiles, affected manners, taking care to flatter each person he spoke to without insulting another—he could do it with style, but tonight the façade exhausted him more than usual. When Baroness Griffin walked in with what looked like an actual dead peacock on her head, it was all Shiro could do to maintain his bland smile. He knew Nyma thought he should be more in tune with the latest fashions, but he had to be forgiven if he didn’t want to cater to _that_. It was no wonder the Griffins’ son was always so uptight.

Deciding he deserved a reward for keeping his mouth shut, Shiro took the first opportunity to slip away from the other guests. He found his way to the kitchens with the excuse of visiting Alice, the daughter of one of his longtime tenants, who worked as a cook in the Sanda household. When she snuck him an extra piece of strawberry cake for his trouble, he resolved to bring her parents a gift tomorrow. Such a wonderful, generous family clearly deserved his gratitude.

He dodged a gaggle of party guests heading for the lounge and hopped through an open window into the courtyard. There was just enough bite in the air to keep the other nobles indoors, so Shiro leaned against the wall and enjoyed his treat in peace. It was a beautiful evening; the courtyard was lined in purple and white paper lanterns, while early stars winked playfully from the twilight sky overhead. A gentle breeze whispered through his hair, but the soft lining of his silver-gray jacket kept out the chill. He couldn’t help but linger even after he finished the cake, watching the half-moon peek out between wispy clouds.

He’d almost concocted a polite excuse to take his leave for the night, when a very familiar flash of red jumped through the open window next to him.

The thief’s hood was up, and his bandanna covered the bottom half of his face. His eyes, a shade darker than the glittering sky, flared wide behind his mask at the sight of Shiro.

Shiro swallowed, heart rattling so violently in his chest that he thought it might burst through his ribs. A small leather sack was slung casually over Red’s shoulder, about half full. He’d taken more than just the locket, then. Shiro mentally replayed everything he’d seen in the house that night— _the candelabras_ , he decided. There were four of them on the dinner table, each molded from fine silver and adorned with fine-cut amethysts. With the guests all adjourned to the lounge, now would be an opportune time for Red to spirit them away.

_Stop stalling, Shirogane._

Red was here, in glorious color, only a foot in front of him. He’d seen Shiro, and he wasn’t running away. Clearly, this chance was heaven-sent. Shiro needed to say something smooth and witty and just a touch flirtatious enough to keep him here.

Shiro sucked in a breath, feeling his face melt into a broad, wobbly smile.

“Hi.”

_Great opening line. Real smooth._

Red continued to stare with startled eyes. “… Hi.”

At least he wasn’t doing much better.

“It’s… it’s so good to see you,” Shiro managed.

Red tossed an incredulous glance through the open window behind him. He hefted the bag over his shoulder, producing a telltale clink of metal. _Definitely the candelabras._ “In this situation?”

“In any situation.”

Red blinked, silent for a moment. Finally, he pulled down his bandanna, revealing a shy smile. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Shiro sighed.

 

(“I can see why you clicked,” Matt commented. “You’re both so eloquent.”

Shiro scowled. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Sorry. Do continue.”)

 

Red opened his mouth to speak, but a burst of loud feminine giggling from inside drowned out his voice. Shiro peered through the window to see a young noble—Lady Plaxum—stumbling into the hall with her arms looped around the neck of a footman. _How scandalous._ Thankfully, the pair were too absorbed in each other to notice the bright red thief in the middle of an extremely conspicuous robbery.

There was no time to think it through. Shiro grabbed Red’s hand and dragged him into the sheltering arms of the nearest shrubbery.

He flattened Red against the mansion’s stone wall, closing him in with his body. The shrub’s branches snagged at his clothes and scratched at the back of his neck, reminding him that this might not have been the wisest idea, but it was too late to turn back now—Lady Plaxum and her lover came to a drunken, stumbling halt just inside the window. From the sound of it, they might be there for a while.

Shiro tried to ignore them—it was easier to focus on how his face was separated from Red’s only by the difference in their heights. Red had lowered his bag to the ground to make more room, but Shiro’s chest still pressed against his in the confined space. His hood had fallen, caught on a wayward branch, and a leaf or two decorated his short ponytail. His breath shuddered hot across Shiro’s throat.

Gently, Shiro plucked the leaves from Red’s hair. The inky strands were just as soft as he’d dreamed. Once he’d started touching, it was impossible to stop; his fingertips trailed through the wild bangs that framed Red’s cheekbones. He was tucking a loose, silky strand behind Red’s ear when Red snatched his wrist.

Shiro flinched, ready to apologize, but Red’s fingertips quickly found the bandages wrapped around Shiro’s first two fingers. He raised questioning eyes to Shiro’s face, a wrinkle of concern visible between his brows.

“Oh, that’s…” Shiro had completely forgotten about the wound. “It’s just a cut.”

The intensity in Red’s eyes only increased, his lips twisting into a frown. He looked _worried._

Shiro wracked his brain for any remotely feasible explanation other than the embarrassing truth, but Red’s piercing gaze left him empty. He couldn’t lie to that face.

“It’s not bad,” Shiro whispered, sheepish. “… That trick you guys did with Sendak’s plates was pretty neat, so…”

The slow transition of expressions across Red’s face would have been comical, if it didn’t come at the expense of Shiro’s dignity. His brows furrowed in confusion, before his eyes went blank, considering Shiro’s words. Then the light of realization dawned, and his tension crumbled, replaced by a snort of laughter.

“Oh my _god,_ ” he wheezed. He clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle his snickering, but his shoulders still shook with it. “You’re such… a _dork_ …”

“Shhh,” Shiro hissed, grinning in spite of himself. God, Red had a beautiful laugh. Shiro cursed the circumstances that kept them hidden in a place where he couldn’t enjoy it properly. He settled for cupping Red’s face in his hand, bumping their foreheads together. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

The hand not clamped over Red’s mouth snagged in the front of Shiro’s jacket, as if he needed the support to hold himself up. “I used to think you were _cool_.”

“You think I’m cool?”

“ _Used to_ ,” Red repeated. He gave Shiro’s shoulder a little shove, but there was no force behind it. His hand dropped from his mouth as his laughter fizzled. “How many plates did you break?”

It was Shiro’s turn to frown. “Nyma only let me have two.”

 _She_ had managed to spin a plate on her first try. Maybe it was something that couldn’t be done without two hands. Shiro had tried to take responsibility and clean up after his own disastrous attempts, until a broken shard sliced his fingers open.

“Too many,” Red murmured. His eyes twinkled in the dim light filtering through the branches.

He was so close, and so warm. And seriously, _how_ did he always smell so good? He lived in the middle of the forest for God’s sake. Shiro would bet the rest of his sugar supply that Red never washed that cloak. Yet he still retained that fresh scent of evergreen and a spicy hint of campfire smoke, the smell of autumn in Sherwood. Shiro wanted to bury his nose in that dark hair and just breathe him in.

 

(“Shiro,” Matt groaned. “I didn’t need to know this. Why did you think I need to know this?”

Shiro smirked. “I just want my confession to be thorough.”)

 

The spark of amusement in Red’s eyes shifted, flickering into something more vulnerable. His fingers tightened in Shiro’s jacket, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

This was it. Shiro knew he wouldn’t get a better chance than this.

Slowly, his thumb traced the shape of Red’s bottom lip. No surprises, this time. Red deserved to know exactly where he stood, and exactly what he wanted.

It would’ve been a lot smoother if only his hand would stop shaking.

“May I?” he breathed.

Red seemed to be holding his breath. His hands slid slowly up Shiro’s chest, smoothing over the wrinkles in his jacket, until they came to rest on his shoulders. Dark lashes fluttered as he lifted onto his toes.

The kiss was a slow meeting of dry lips, shy but determined. When Red drew back, Shiro chased his mouth for a second, and then a third. With each gentle press of their lips, the tension in Red’s body eased a fraction, until he melted closer against Shiro’s chest. Shiro tilted his head for a better angle, crowding him against the wall.

Shiro intended to take things slow. After the way Red kissed him the first time, he felt fairly confident that Red had never done this before. Not that Shiro had leagues of experience, himself, and it had been a few years, but the thought that he didn’t need to share this with anyone else stoked something low and hungry in his gut. During his four days of pining, he’d had plenty of time to imagine how he would ease Red into it, make him feel comfortable. He’d had plans—detailed plans.

It was just a little hard to remember those plans while Red kissed him a little harder every time, like they were fighting a mouth-to-mouth sumo match. The chorus of angels singing in Shiro’s head the whole time didn’t help, either.

Still, if Red wanted to make this into a contest, far be it from Shiro to surrender gracefully. He threaded in fingers into the loose, shorter strands of hair at Red’s nape and tugged, until Red’s neck bent the way he wanted it. When Red shoved their mouths together again, Shiro bit down lightly on Red’s lower lip, followed by a sweep of his tongue. Red’s breath hitched, fingers grasping at the fabric over Shiro’s shoulders.

Shiro backed off immediately. “Still okay?”

The look in Red’s eyes bordered on wonderment, before he locked his hands behind Shiro’s neck and dragged him back down into another kiss. Shiro laughed breathlessly against his mouth.

Time and space faded away as they stayed huddled against the wall. By the time they broke apart, Shiro had almost forgotten his own name, let alone the inconvenient truth that he was currently hidden in a shrubbery with the man who was robbing his host. He’d go to every dinner party he was invited to, if they all ended up like this one.

Red’s arms stayed draped around Shiro’s neck, forehead leaned against Shiro’s jaw as he caught his breath. Shiro kissed his temple, then the line of his cheek where red silk gave way to skin, then lingered at the hollow behind his jaw. In the soft splotches of lantern light filtering through the branches, Red’s ears burned even brighter than the shade of his mask. He always blushed to his ears, first; they gave him away when his costume hid any other signs of embarrassment. It was hopelessly adorable.

Temptation proved too strong. Shiro pressed a feather-light kiss to one ear, and when that wasn’t enough, he gently teased Red’s earlobe between his teeth.

The strangled sound Red made was almost inhuman, and definitely loud enough to resonate through the courtyard. All too suddenly, Shiro remembered _exactly_ where he was, and why they were trying to keep quiet in the first place. He froze, heart thudding faster than a festival drum. Red went similarly still beside him, fingers grasping Shiro’s jacket like claws.

From the nearby window, they picked out the soft rustling of cloth.

“Did you hear something?” Lady Plaxum asked, voice husky.

“Could be a cat,” her companion reasoned.

They remained silent for a moment, presumably listening to the darkness. Shiro didn’t dare move or breathe.

“You should rejoin the party,” the footman said, after what felt like an age. “They’ll be looking for you.”

The man made a good point. Shiro had no idea how long he’d been entangled here with Red, and he’d slipped away for some time already before their encounter. Heaven only knew what stories the rumor mill would churn out explaining his absence. Of course, really, nothing they came up with would be more of a scandal than the truth—of all the things they might imagine, making out with Nottingham’s most wanted in the courtyard probably wasn’t one of them.

Shiro counted to sixty before letting his head fall onto Red’s shoulder, shaking with silent laughter.

“Shut up,” Red grumbled. He made no move to push Shiro away, though, so Shiro didn’t think he was angry.

“Aww.” Shiro pulled back just enough to show Red his grin. “I think you’d make a cute cat.”

Red met this proposal with a scowl. “I’m more of a dog person.”

“You did help me save that wolf,” Shiro allowed. “I never got to thank you for that, by the way.”

“It’s like you said. No reason to kill him.” The downward tilt of Red’s lips softened, and he seemed to be searching Shiro’s eyes again. “He’s started showing up around camp. I feed him, sometimes.”

 _I bet that’s an understatement._ It was all too easy to picture Red crouched on the forest floor, coaxing the wolf pup to take food from his hand, or lounging against a tree trunk with the pup curled comfortably in his lap. He was definitely the kind of person who would feed his pet dog straight from the dinner table, even with company present.

Shiro opened his mouth to say as much, when a different animal sound interrupted him—a familiar hooting call, almost good enough to pass for a real owl.

“… Sorry,” Red sighed. “I need to go.”

At least he looked as reluctant as Shiro felt. Moving away to allow him room to collect his bag was an exercise in self-control.

“There’s something else I forgot to tell you,” Shiro said. “After the Garrison tracked down that locket, Sendak sent a notice to all the sheriffs within fifteen miles. They’ll be watching for you to try to sell the other pieces.”

Red nodded, as though he’d been expecting something along those lines. “I’m sure we can think of some ways around that. Thanks for the heads up.”

Bag once again over his shoulder, he lingered in the shadow of the shrub, shifting his weight awkwardly from boot to boot. His indigo eyes scanned Shiro’s face again, like he was waiting for something. A million thoughts bounced around in Shiro’s head like kernels popping over a fire.

_Say something!_

“Can I see you again?” Shiro blurted. “Not like this. I mean, not that this wasn’t amazing, of course it was, I just want to know—”

“You have another town hall meeting on Tuesday, right?” Red interrupted. Shiro snapped his rambling mouth shut and managed a nod. “There’s something I want to look into at the Garrison. I could meet you, after?”

If Shiro nodded any harder, his head might fall off. “Yes. Please. I’d like that.”

Perfect. No problem. He could handle another four days of pining, if he had something to look forward to at the end of them. And he absolutely was _not_ disappointed that Red hadn’t suggested coming to his house. Red was a busy man; Shiro could live with being squeezed in between his regularly scheduled robberies. For now.

“Great.” Relief bloomed in Red’s smile, as if he’d actually worried Shiro might reject him. The notion was mind-boggling.

The swift kiss he pressed to Shiro’s lips was over before Shiro had a chance to react.

“Night, Shiro,” he whispered, and then melted into the darkness.

Shiro blinked at the empty space for several seconds. With Red gone, it was hard to believe the encounter was more than a dream, conjured by stars and the pretty purple lights decorating the courtyard.

Of course, if it _was_ a delusion, Shiro had no excuse for the fine tears the branches had wrought on his favorite dinner jacket.

He straightened his clothes, combed careless fingers through the mess he’d made of his hair, and climbed back through the window after confirming the hallway was empty, following the sound of voices toward the lounge. If anyone asked, he’d just say he fell asleep; those who knew him passably well might even believe it.

 

“Let me guess,” Matt deadpanned. “They didn’t buy it.”

“Nobody’s said anything to me directly yet, but I’m pretty sure they all think I’m having an affair with Lady Sanda’s footman,” Shiro admitted.

Matt snorted. “I guess they know better than to think you were with Lady Plaxum.”

“Lady Plaxum ‘felt faint and went outside for some fresh air.’ Honestly, I think they think she was covering for me.” Shiro shrugged one shoulder, wry smile in place. “When I went to visit Alice’s family, she asked me two separate times if I knew any of the other staff.” His smile faded to a contemplative frown. “It’s all the same to me, but… I just hope he doesn’t get into trouble.”

“I mean, the guy is having a secret affair with a noble, even if it’s not you,” Matt pointed out. “If he does get in trouble, it’s not like it’s your fault.”

Shiro made a noncommittal sound. The footman and Lady Plaxum were at least partially responsible for the stolen moments he’d shared with Red, so he couldn’t help but wish them well.

“So,” Matt continued, though his expression clearly said _I’m afraid to ask_ , “your town hall was last week, right? Did you meet up, or what?”

“Ah.” Shiro settled back on the seat cushion, relaxing against the barrier between compartments with a ready grin. “I thought you’d never ask…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More self-indulgent fluff next time. <3


	7. Chapter 7

Keith hit the ground in a shower of loose pine needles. Before he could catch his breath, the blunted end of a smooth wooden staff jabbed underneath his chin. 

One wrong move would mean a crushed windpipe. 

A sideways glance revealed the dull gleam of his knife, lying well beyond the reach of his fingertips. He contemplated rolling, but a thick leather boot dug into his thigh with almost enough pressure to crack bone. 

_Shit._

He could struggle all he wanted, but his instincts knew what his mind didn’t want to admit—if this was a real fight, he’d already be dead.

Allura beamed down at him, loose strands of silvery hair glinting in the dappled sunlight.

“I believe,” she panted, “this is your loss.”

Keith grunted agreement. “I yield.”

He absolutely refused to hear Lance’s taunt from the other side of the clearing. The others valued their lives enough to give Keith and Allura plenty of space when they sparred; right now Lance perched on a stump, half-hidden behind Hunk as he helped peel potatoes for tonight’s meal.

_Coward._

If Keith wasn’t reeling from his loss, he would’ve brought up the one time Lance had tried to keep up with them. Lance was still recovering from the trauma.

It wasn’t that Keith underestimated Allura. She was a smart fighter, and her strength was unbelievable, but she tended to rely too much on form and technique, especially under pressure. Keith had spent his early teens honing his street fighting skills against bigger, stronger opponents, and he’d sharpened those skills in the war, where a single mistake meant death. His style was all about staying low and fast, taking the dirty shots whenever he saw an opening. The Garrison taught him etiquette, but honor didn’t mean much when he was staring down an army of enemy soldiers, all with their own reasons to fight. On the battlefield, victory meant survival.

Allura had surprised him the first time they fought, but Keith’s practical experience had won him every bout between them since then.

Until now.

“You had help,” he accused. He didn’t know what Coran whispered to her during their break, but the change in outcome was brutal. One minute, Keith had her on the defensive; the next, she knocked his legs out from under him.

“We made no rules against seeking advice.” Triumph sparkled in Allura’s eyes as she twirled her staff into a resting position. 

Keith almost winced when her foot lifted; that was definitely going to leave a bruise. He accepted her offered hand, but as an act of protest he sank further onto the ground, forcing her to lift his dead weight. Allura hauled him to his feet as though he was no heavier than a paper doll.

“Now.” Her voice dropped low, so only Keith could hear, and her grip remained tight around his wrist. “I believe you owe me a story. Where did you go after we robbed the baroness?”

_Dammit._ He _knew_ he shouldn’t have agreed to that stupid bet.

“I already told you—I went to Garrison Hall. Then I came back.”

“You’re not getting out of this so easily.” Allura leaned closer, sapphire eyes gleaming. “I know you met Shiro that night. I demand to hear the details.”

Keith’s eyes darted around the clearing. Lance scowled at them over a half-peeled potato until Hunk chided him to keep his hands moving. Hunk’s back was turned, his focus aimed at the meat he was seasoning—looked like pheasant tonight.

Straddling a moss-covered log at the other end of their campsite, Pidge sorted through their latest stash of loot, noting down which items seemed easiest to sell. Coran sat on the edge of the log, humming a jaunty tune as he whittled a piece of chopped wood into a shockingly realistic lion with only a simple pocket knife. A small menagerie of creations paraded across the log at his side.

None of them paid much attention to Keith and Allura, now that the match was over, but Keith still couldn’t have this conversation in front of them. They were family, and he loved them, but there were some things they did _not_ need to hear.

“We’re getting water,” he announced. The others offered disinterested sounds of acknowledgement.

He retrieved his knife, grabbed an empty bucket, and set off along the narrow deer trail toward the creek, leaving Allura to trot after him. At least she had the common decency to wait until the forest swallowed the clearing behind them before she rushed to his side, fingers clasped in front of her eager smile. A pair of buckets dangled from her elbows.

“Well?” she prompted. “Did you kiss?”

Keith missed a step, almost tumbling into a thorn bush. Allura snagged his arm with a gleeful gasp.

“You _did_! More than once? What was it like? Tell me _everything_!”

If this was what she meant by _details_ , Keith would’ve preferred the thorns.

“Uh,” he croaked. “Can I… work up to that part?”

“Oh, of course I do want to know the whole story,” Allura relented. “Please, start at the beginning.”

 

Rain sluiced over Keith’s covered head, rolling to the drooping edges of his hood and dripping into his eyes. He would've been soaked to his bones by now if not for his cloak; a touch and a few whispered words from Allura had rendered it practically waterproof.

The packed dirt alleys winding through Nottingham had melted into a muddy slush which sucked at the soles of Keith’s boots as he ran. Torches dimmed or fizzled out completely under the torrent, making it hard to judge the depth of the puddles. Keith almost cursed out loud when his right foot sank into an ankle-deep pool, splashing a wave of icy sludge past the lip of his boot. He didn’t know which was worse; the cold wetness seeping between his toes, or the uncomfortable squelching under his foot with every step.

The only good thing about this weather was that it kept the streets clear. The only people Keith saw were scattered pairs of Garrison officers, huddled on street corners with their heads down. From the sound of it, the rest of the townspeople were seeking refuge at Sal’s—a chorus of raucous voices spilled through the pub’s open door.

Just as the Garrison compound came into sight, the heavy peal of the church bell echoed through the town, chiming half past nine. Each ring pounded a nail further into Keith’s emotional coffin. 

Keith had skipped right over the realm of _late_ and landed in the vicinity of _not coming_. The town hall meeting should've ended hours ago—he couldn’t blame Shiro for giving up on him by now. Hell, he actually _hoped_ Shiro hadn’t waited too long, and had ridden home before the rain got too heavy. The smart thing to do here would be to call it a night and drop in on Shiro tomorrow to apologize.

But Keith hadn’t survived this long by always doing the smart thing. If there was even the tiniest chance Shiro might still be here, Keith would never forgive himself if he didn’t make sure.

His muddy boots only slipped once while he clambered over the crumbling section of the east wall. He’d expected security to be tighter after his first robbery, but Sendak must have focused all his forces on the passage leading directly to the treasury; the perimeter was relatively unguarded. Keith only spotted a single patrol, easily avoided by ducking behind the gnarled old oak Shiro used to take naps under during the summer.

Amber light flooded the windows of Garrison Hall. Keith picked out the dark outlines of shadows patrolling the hallway where he’d sparred with Shiro. Apparently, the Garrison could afford to burn lanterns all night, but they couldn’t be bothered to patch a wall that was falling apart before Keith joined. Typical.

He crept around the side of the building and cautiously peered over the windowsill of the meeting room. Empty. Of course it was. Shiro aside, the other nobles probably started throwing fits at the first hint of dark clouds.

Skirting the entryway, guarded by a pair of soaked, miserable sentries he didn’t recognize, he made his way down to the single kitchen window. Still no sign of Shiro, though a lingering flicker of orange in the hearth suggested the room hadn’t been empty for long. Keith grew more despondent with every spot he checked, drifting like a ghost through the rain.

Feeling disappointed was stupid. He’d rather have Shiro curled up cozily under a blanket at home than risk him catching a cold in this rain. Shiro would probably give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume the weather had something to do with why he didn’t show. 

It was only half of the truth; the long and short of it was that robbing Baroness Griffin’s home proved far more troublesome than any of them expected. In fairness, who would've expected James Griffin to have a small contingent from the Garrison lying in wait for Keith and his friends? It had taken Keith at least forty minutes of backtracking through the apple orchards to shake them off. Griffin always had been a stubborn bastard.

Still, whatever happened between them in the past, Keith was honestly a little relieved that Griffin seemed to be doing well. He’d never forget how miserable Griffin looked, the day he testified at Keith’s trial.

The only place left to check was the stable. Keith darted across the open pathway and ducked around the corner, just beyond the welcoming light pooling across the mud. With utmost caution, he peeked inside. He could see the shadows of several horses shifting in their stalls—probably all Garrison stock, at this hour—and four lanterns lining the stall doors, each carefully encased to prevent fire. No sign of the stable master. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.

His only warning was the flash of a shadow across his vision before a long arm snaked out to catch him in a headlock.

Keith ducked under the grab and danced out of reach, hand flying to the hilt of his knife. When he saw his attacker’s face, he felt his jaw drop.

The skin at the corners of Shiro’s eyes crinkled, and his smile glowed bright enough to cut through the gloom. His white bangs were plastered to his forehead, with thick, round droplets rolling down the bridge of his nose and dripping from his chin.

“You came!”

The pure and obvious joy on his face knocked the breath from Keith’s lungs.

Once he overcame the initial shock, Keith realized Shiro was _drenched_. His dress shirt had probably once been a soft lavender, but the rain had dyed it a deep plum, and the fabric clung to the lines of his body in a way the other nobles would've considered indecent. Anyone who thought Shiro had grown weaker since his accident had to be blind as well as stupid. He’d always been broad, but he’d put on even more muscle since Keith left the Garrison. Keith could see the definition of his chest and his abs where the shirt was plastered to his skin.

Blinking water out of his eyes, Keith brought himself back to the moment. A quick sprint through the rain wouldn’t have done this much damage; Shiro must have been out in the elements for quite a while.

Waiting for Keith.

Keith tore off his scarlet cloak and draped it over Shiro’s head. It was a little too small for him to wear it properly, but at least it would keep the rain off. Once the cloak was tucked securely around Shiro’s shoulders, Keith grabbed his hand and dragged him into the stable.

Shiro followed obediently as Keith led him between the stalls. Atlas nickered a greeting as they passed, white head poking over her stall door.

Stupid to expect anything else. Keith knew Shiro couldn’t bring Black to a place like this.

He ushered Shiro up the rickety ladder leading to the loft, breathing in the familiar scents of hay and horse. The loft had been a favorite sanctuary of Keith’s, during his Garrison days. It was a safe place to hide when the thousand little stresses of constant human interaction became too much. As far as Keith could tell, the place was completely unchanged—even the stick drawing of Iverson he’d scraped into the wood in an irritated moment was still there.

But he didn’t have time to bask in nostalgia—a muffled sneeze from Shiro reminded him why he was there.

“Stay here,” he ordered, and crept back down the ladder and into the tack room. 

Thankfully, the stable master still kept everything in the same place. Keith dug out a pair of huge, fluffy towels meant for wiping down horses after a hard ride, and hugged them to his chest.

He wished he knew where the hell these nerves came from, so he could kick them back where they belonged. His heart might hammer a hole through his ribcage if it kept this up. And holy shit, were his hands seriously shaking? God, this was so stupid. He hadn’t been such a mess last time—embarrassed, sure, and weirdly shy, but nothing like this. He felt like his bones might rattle apart and collapse in a pile on the floor.

It was just… They’d never _planned_ a rendezvous like this before. Shiro might’ve been expecting him after the dinner party, but neither of them would’ve guessed it would end like _that_. It all happened so fast, Keith didn’t have time to freak out until he was well on his way back to camp. And the second time, at Lady Sanda’s estate, they weren’t supposed to run into each other—Keith didn’t even realize Shiro was there until he jumped out the window right in front of him. Their interlude felt surreal, and half the time Keith suspected he’d dreamed the whole thing up.

It didn’t help that he knew he’d make a drowned rat look handsome in comparison right now. He raised hopeless fingers to the remnants of the thin braids he’d weaved into his hair before the heist. No point trying to fix it now.

The stupidest thing about this meltdown was, this was _Shiro_. Shiro had never judged Keith, never asked him to do anything he didn’t choose for himself. And Shiro apparently wanted to see him badly enough to wait in the rain for over an hour.

Keith steadied himself with a long breath, clinging to that thought. Hadn’t he kept Shiro waiting long enough already?

He gave his head a firm shake and climbed back up to the loft.

Shiro sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, toying with the hem of the cloak between his finger and thumb. The scarlet hood was still draped over his head. At the creak of Keith’s footsteps on the ladder, he looked up, beaming like they hadn’t seen each other in years. 

“You’re back!” If he had a tail, it would’ve been wagging. 

Keith wrestled with a ridiculous impulse to slam his head against the wall and clutch at his heart. It wasn’t fair for a man built like _that_ to be so damn _adorable_.

While Keith dithered at the top of the ladder, Shiro’s eyes swept slowly over his body, gaze warm and lingering. Keith realized with a jolt that this was the first time Shiro had seen him without the cloak. Normally he never spared a thought for the close-fitting black shirt and pants he wore underneath—they were comfortable and easy to move in, and that was good enough—but now he felt exposed, like Shiro could see every mark carved into his skin. Keith shifted awkwardly and resisted the urge to pull his sleeve tighter over his wrist.

His only option was to hurl a towel into Shiro’s face.

Keith ignored Shiro’s muffled sound of indignation, tossing the extra towel onto the floor. He dropped to his knees in front of Shiro and snatched the towel back to reveal Shiro’s disgruntled pout. 

“I can’t believe you.” He knocked the hood back so he could start drying Shiro’s hair. “It’s like you’re asking to catch a cold.”

Shiro’s eyes reflected every flicker of light from below, too bright in the dimness.

“You really know your way around here,” he murmured.

It took all Keith’s self-discipline not to flinch. The comment sounded innocent enough, but there was something sly in the way Shiro watched Keith’s face. Keith hoped Shiro couldn’t hear his heart pounding.

He played casual. “You think we didn’t case every inch of this place before we robbed it?”

Shiro made a little humming sound of acknowledgement, but the intensity in his gaze still made Keith want to squirm.

“What were you doing out there, anyway?” Keith grumbled, wringing out Shiro’s bangs until they stuck straight up in a poofy mess.

“I thought I’d take a walk while I waited.”

Keith shifted the towel so Shiro could see his flat look. “In _that_?”

He gestured to the torrential downpour still visible through the loft’s narrow window. Shiro shrugged one shoulder, supremely unconcerned.

“I like to feel the rain on my face.”

“Don’t blame me if you get sick,” Keith muttered. A stupid thing to say, considering it was Keith’s fault Shiro was waiting in the first place. If Shiro did get sick, Keith was the _only_ person to blame. “You should’ve just gone home when I didn’t show. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“You said you would come.” Shiro’s smile unfurled slowly, brightening his cheeks like the sunrise. “And here you are.”

Now Keith wanted to squirm for a different reason. He averted his eyes, feeling his ears get hot.

“I take it tonight’s heist didn’t go as planned?” Shiro prompted.

Keith’s shoulders sagged a little bit. “You could say that. A group of Garrison guards were waiting for us at Griffin Manor. I had to lead them around for a while so the others could get out.”

Shiro’s pale brows came together. “Is everyone okay?”

Leave it to Shiro to worry about the ragtag group who kidnapped him. A quiet warmth kindled in Keith’s chest.

“They’re all fine,” he assured Shiro, smiling. “I checked in with them before I came. We got away clean. Mission accomplished.”

“And what about the rest of it?”

A single droplet rolled down along the line of Shiro’s throat, sliding beneath the loose collar of his shirt. It was damn distracting.

“Hm?”

“You said there was something you wanted to look into. Isn’t that why you’re here?” Shiro reminded him. “Did you get what you came for?”

“Oh.” He’d had half a mind to sneak into Sendak’s office at Garrison Hall during the meeting, see if he could dig up any records of Sam Holt’s arrest. In his rush to get to Shiro, he’d completely forgotten that part of the plan.

“Red?” Shiro leaned a little closer, scanning Keith’s face. His mouth curved in an incredulous smile. “Don’t tell me you forgot?”

Keith scrubbed more thoroughly at Shiro’s hair with the towel, pushing the hood of the cloak further down so he could dry his neck. “It was a long shot anyway. I’ll try again another time.”

“Hmm. So you came all the way from Griffin Manor, in the rain, after all that, just to see me?” A teasing note crept into Shiro’s voice. “I guess you must really like me.”

The words sounded smug, but there was something off about the way Shiro said them—a lilt at the end that sounded more like a question than a declaration. When Keith looked closer, even the cocky smirk Shiro wore seemed a little too forced. There was a glimmer of vulnerability in his stormy eyes, as though he didn’t quite believe what he was saying. As if a part of him was just waiting for Keith to contradict him.

_Oh. I get it now._

Tension left Keith in a slow, gentle exhale. He really _was_ being stupid. He’d been so worried about himself—his fear, his guilt, his sense of inadequacy—that he’d never stopped to consider what Shiro might be feeling. Keith of all people should've realized there was always a kernel of truth hidden in Shiro’s self-deprecating humor, even before the accident that scarred his face, took his arm, and turned his hair white. As impossible as it seemed, Shiro might've actually worried that Keith would stand him up tonight.

No matter what direction this thing between them was headed, one thing would always stay the same: nothing was more important than keeping the smile on Shiro’s face.

“Yeah,” Keith murmured, “I guess I really do.”

Shiro’s eyes lit up, like moonlight winking through gray clouds. His cheeks flushed a pale rose, lips parting in a silent _‘oh,’_ before his smile returned, smaller but warmer than before. He looked young and delighted, much like he did the first time Keith showed up at a boring dinner party and whisked him away through the storeroom window.

“Wow,” he said softly.

Heat crawled up Keith’s neck. He didn’t know what to do with this warm, gooey feeling, like his insides had adopted the consistency of a cherry cobbler. And Shiro was looking at Keith like he felt the same way. 

Shiro plucked the discarded towel from the floor and used it to wipe the rain and sweat from Keith’s forehead.

“Want to hear a secret?” he asked. He swept back Keith’s bangs, ruffling gently.

“What?”

Shiro leaned a little closer, grin conspiratorial. “I like you, too. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

Keith hadn’t thought it was possible to blush any harder, but clearly Shiro was out to prove him wrong. He couldn’t help but retaliate a little.

“Is that what you said to Lady Sanda’s footman, too?”

A shocked bubble of laughter burst from Shiro’s throat. “Damn. You heard about that, huh?”

“Mhm. How are things going between you two?”

“Oh, they’re great. We’re madly in love.” Shiro’s hand moved behind Keith’s neck, squeezing the water from the dripping ends of his hair.

“For an old timer, you sure get around—”

His comment cut off in a squawk when Shiro started tickling his ear. He knocked Shiro’s hand away and shoved the towel into his face. Shiro dropped his own towel in favor of grabbing at Keith’s, and chaos broke loose.

They wrestled around the loft, filling the air with clouds of dust and flying hay. Finally, Keith snagged the cloak still dangling from Shiro’s shoulders and tangled it around one of his knees, pitching him down onto a half-destroyed hay bale. He threw a leg over Shiro’s waist and pinned his arm above his head.

“Got you,” Keith crowed.

Shiro flexed the stump of his right arm, cocking a snowy brow. “Should you be so rough on an unarmed man?”

Keith snorted and rolled his eyes. Heaven forbid anyone should underestimate Shiro because of his missing arm, but he had no problem using it as a convenient excuse—or a horrible joke.

“You’re such a brat.”

“First I’m old, now I’m a brat. It’s like you can’t make up your mind.”

Keith tightened his grip on Shiro’s wrist. “Just yield already. This is your loss.”

Any traces of self-doubt had vanished from Shiro’s eyes, replaced by something dark and promising that washed over Keith like liquid flame.

“You’re assuming this isn’t exactly where I want you.”

That was the smirk Shiro wore when he knew he’d won. Keith shivered. Suddenly he was extremely conscious of his current situation, straddling Shiro’s waist and bending close to hold his arm above his head. They’d ended up in a similar position before, on the purple carpet at Garrison Hall, but this time it felt completely different.

Some time later—

 

(“Keith.” Allura paused in filling her bucket with crisp creek water, leveling him with her most unimpressed stare.

Keith scowled at a pair of leaves twirling around each other on the current.

“I asked for details,” Allura reminded him. She flashed her teeth in a pearly grin. “I _know_ you wouldn’t do something as dishonorable as going back on your word.”

He found himself desperately wishing he’d worn his cloak and mask, if only to hide from the relentless sparkling in Allura’s eyes. Her eager attention made him feel like a hero from the latest sensational novel. Not that _he’d_ ever read anything like that. Not that anyone could prove he had, anyway.

Biting off a curse, he raked a hand through his hair.

“Fine. Just… I’m begging you, don’t repeat a word of this to anybody. I’ll die.”

Allura practically bounced toward him, sloshing water onto the bank.

“I swear on my father’s name that I won’t tell a soul!”

Keith sighed.)

 

Shiro shifted slightly, knocking his thigh into Keith’s leg. His bangs fluffed up at a ridiculous angle, and he already had a few pieces of hay sticking out of his hair. It was far from a look that should've made Keith’s throat go dry, but here they were.

“If I do yield,” Shiro said conversationally, “will you kiss me?”

Keith’s gaze flicked down to the playful curve of Shiro’s lips. He swallowed hard.

“Only one way to find out,” he managed.

The triumphant look in Shiro’s eyes was devastating.

“In that case…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I yield.”

Keith knew a challenge when he heard one. Sure, he’d do anything to keep Shiro smiling, but that didn’t mean making things too easy for him.

He held Shiro’s eyes, inching his face closer. Slowly, his nose brushed down the length of Shiro’s before he tilted his head, letting his breath ghost over Shiro’s lips. A light shudder of anticipation ran under Shiro’s skin. Keith hovered there until Shiro’s long lashes fluttered shut.

_Gotcha._

Keith dropped the barest hint of a kiss on the very tip of Shiro’s nose.

Shiro’s eyes stayed closed, but a furrow formed in his brow as seconds passed and Keith didn’t move. Finally, he cracked an eye open. Amusement and exasperation warred on his face when he saw Keith’s crooked smirk.

“Really?”

“What?” Keith grinned. He touched his lips to the side of Shiro’s nose this time. “I’m kissing you.”

Shiro huffed a disgruntled breath, but Keith could see him biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his smile. He closed his eyes again, but his brows remained raised expectantly, as if to say _get on with it_.

Keith giggled. His nerves had simmered away, replaced with a feeling like champagne bubbling in his chest. If he didn’t hold onto Shiro tightly, he might float away.

He pressed his lips firmly to the middle of Shiro’s forehead, then slid down to place a slow, deliberate kiss between his eyes. Gentle pecks followed along the line of Shiro’s profile until Keith paused at the scar across his nose.

He released Shiro’s wrist so he could run his thumb along the length of the old wound, his touch feather-light. The scar tissue felt rougher than he’d expected.

Truth be told, Keith liked Shiro’s scar. Though it was a symbol of everything Keith had missed, it was also a reminder that Shiro had survived it all. That scar was an important piece of the person Shiro had become—the person here with Keith now. Out of the jumble of feelings seething in Keith’s heart when he looked at it, the strongest emotion was pride. No matter what life threw at him, Shiro would never stop being Shiro.

Shiro kept still while Keith sorted out his emotions. A small, relaxed smile curled his lips. He’d always been patient with Keith, content to let him find his own answers. It was one of the reasons he was so easy to trust.

Soft and reverent, Keith kissed the center of Shiro’s scar. The quiet breath that eased from Shiro’s chest felt like a sigh.

Keith took his time laying worship to the length of the scar. Once he was satisfied, his mouth wandered first to Shiro’s cheekbone, and then to the hinge of his jaw. Shiro’s breath stuttered when Keith’s lips found the hollow just under his ear, his hand flying up to grasp at Keith’s hair.

Keith hesitated, but instead of pulling him away, Shiro kneaded gently at nape of his neck, holding him in place.

Encouraged, Keith let his lips wander along the underside of Shiro’s jaw. He gave in to curiosity, tongue darting out to test the slightly rougher texture where evening stubble had started to grow in. Shiro’s fingers twitched in Keith’s hair, but when Keith pulled back, he tilted his head, presenting the line of his throat.

Keith nuzzled behind Shiro’s ear, hoping Shiro could feel his smile. Shiro’s fingers combed through his hair once before applying slight pressure to the back of his skull, urging him on.

He lost track of time kissing his way down Shiro’s throat, exploring the lines and dips with his tongue. At first, he’d worried that his compulsion to taste Shiro’s skin was more than a little weird, but Shiro didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seemed to actually like it. Keith catalogued every sound he made, filing them away for future reference.

By the time Keith reached the bend of his shoulder, Shiro’s breathing had gone a little ragged. Keith pushed back the loose collar of Shiro’s disheveled shirt and slid two fingers along the bank of his collar bone. Goosebumps pebbled across Shiro’s skin in the wake of his touch.

He remembered one morning not long after he’d joined the Garrison, when he’d snuck into the officers’ quarters before the call to breakfast. He’d hoped to catch Shiro for a quick sparring session before duty swept them both away. Keith dropped through the window to find Shiro still only half-dressed, fingers frozen partway through the task of buttoning his shirt. That much, Keith had expected—what he hadn’t expected was Adam, perched on the end of Shiro’s bed in a similar state of undress, one boot pulled halfway on.

Shiro had greeted Keith warmly, though with a wry request that he knock next time, and agreed to meet him at the practice ring in ten minutes. It was all Keith could do not to stare at the bold, obvious bruise at the base of Shiro’s throat, which definitely hadn’t been there when Keith saw him at dinner last night. The shape of it burned into his eyes even after it disappeared beneath the hastily buttoned collar of Shiro’s uniform. Keith blamed his loss in their spar on the memory—it made him hesitate when he had the chance to put Shiro in a headlock.

The mark was a firm reminder that no matter how much time and kindness Shiro offered Keith, no matter how close they became, there was still a part of his life Keith would never be able to touch. Keith didn’t want to admit it, but that realization left him more than a little shaken. It was stupid—someone like Keith was beyond lucky to share in any part of Shiro. He wouldn’t dare ask for more.

Yet, even so, whenever he remembered that morning, he got the same pinched feeling in the pit of his stomach. He never dropped in on Shiro before breakfast, after that.

He realized Shiro’s eyes were open, watching him with one brow slightly quirked. Still waiting patiently for Keith’s next move.

Keith held Shiro’s gaze, keeping a close eye on his reaction as he latched his mouth onto Shiro’s collar bone and sucked.

Shiro’s body jerked, a soft hiss escaping his lips.

_Shit!_

Keith reeled back as far as Shiro’s hand on his head would allow. He must’ve screwed up somehow. He thought he got the basic gist of it from those books he definitely didn’t read, but maybe he was wrong. Or maybe Shiro didn’t want this kind of thing from him. He shouldn’t have overstepped—

A sharp tug on his hair interrupted his panic.

“Shit, Red,” Shiro managed, voice low and a little raw. “Don’t stop.”

_Oh._

_Okay, then._

Keith’s competitive side got the better of him, and he wound up sucking three marks onto Shiro’s clavicle instead of just one. On the third time he added his teeth to the mix, just enough to leave a shallow impression around the bone. The way Shiro dragged his nails against Keith’s scalp and pressed him closer told him he must be doing something right.

He ran his tongue over the bite mark before drawing back to admire the way the bruises bloomed on Shiro’s skin.

Shiro’s breathless laugh broke the silence. His cheeks were flushed, smile lopsided and a little dopey, like he couldn’t quite believe his good luck. His fingers toyed with the hair at the back of Keith’s neck.

“Done already?” he teased.

“Depends.” Keith swallowed; his own voice came out rougher than he expected. “You want me to be done?”

Shiro snorted. His hand cupped the back of Keith’s head, thumb sliding just under Keith’s ear.

“I think I’ve waited long enough.”

He looked pointedly at Keith’s lips and back up again, a question in his eyes. Ever since the first time, when he’d apologized, he kept making a point of asking Keith’s permission. As if Keith would ever deny him anything.

Keith bent down and sealed their mouths together.

He was prepared, this time, for the warmth and softness of Shiro’s lips on his. He wasn’t prepared for the way Shiro pressed forward with a soft sound, fingers squeezing around the back of his neck and tugging him closer. Balance became a wistful memory when his knee slipped on the hay-strewn floor and he flopped awkwardly against Shiro’s broad chest. He could feel the vibration of Shiro’s satisfied hum as much as he heard it.

When Shiro’s tongue prodded gently at his lips, Keith opened for him right away. Shiro tasted like the Garrison’s cinnamon apple tart. It reminded Keith of cool autumn nights on the roof of the dormitory compound, sharing extra dessert portions while Shiro pointed out constellations.

The kisses were wet, and hot, and Keith thought he was making a sound in the back of his throat, but it was hard to care while he was busy sucking Shiro’s tongue into his mouth. He reveled in the feeling of Shiro’s soft hair under his fingernails, in the way Shiro shivered when Keith scratched through the shorter hair behind his ears.

Shiro’s hand wandered the length of Keith’s back, fingers dipping between the ridges of his spine. When he reached Keith’s waist, he toyed with the hem of the shirt for a moment before slipping his fingers underneath.

Keith gasped—Shiro’s fingers felt like fire on his rain-chilled skin, leaving scalding trails everywhere he touched. He felt like a meteor hurtling through the atmosphere, burning up from the inside. He flattened himself against Shiro’s body, kissing him desperately, but he still couldn’t get close enough. At least Shiro seemed to feel the same way—he hooked a leg over the back of Keith’s knee, blunt nails digging in between Keith’s shoulder blades.

When they drew apart for breath, Keith leaned his forehead against Shiro’s, panting in the small space between them. He tried to synchronize his breathing with the distant chiming of Nottingham’s church bell, counting to ten. Was it really less than half an hour since he’d found Shiro? It felt like a lifetime ago.

Shiro stiffened underneath him. It was just for an instant, but Keith pulled back immediately.

“Something wrong?”

Shiro groaned, head sagging back against the hay. His brow was pinched in frustration.

“If I don’t head home soon, Nyma and Rolo might come looking for me,” he admitted, though he showed no sign of moving. His fingertips traced idle patterns across Keith’s back. “I didn’t think to warn them I’d be out so late.”

Keith swallowed another twinge of guilt—if he’d gotten here sooner, they might’ve had more time. “Sorry.”

Reluctantly, he sat up, shuffling off of Shiro’s waist. A cool draft of air through his damp shirt had him instantly missing the heat of Shiro’s hand on his skin. Shiro pushed to a seated position with a grunt, and Keith moved to help him pick the hay from his clothes—he’d never get it all on his own.

“Come with me?” 

Both of their hands paused. Shiro’s eyes widened, surprised by his own boldness. He cleared his throat, hand flying up to rub the back of his neck.

“I mean… If you want. Atlas can carry both of us, and I still have some of that wine…”

His face was redder than Keith had ever seen it, but he looked Keith in the eyes, earnest and hopeful.

Keith’s heart tumbled in his throat, faster than a blade twirled between his fingers.

“I want to. But… I didn’t exactly tell my friends where I was going, either.”

 

(Allura shook her head, lips twisted in wry amusement. “I’m sure Shiro’s home is the first place we would have checked.”

_Thank God I didn’t go, then,_ Keith thought darkly.)

 

Shiro grinned sheepishly. “I guess we didn’t plan this very well.”

“You could say that.”

“Then, next time you’re free.” Shiro caught his hand, threading their fingers together. “How about meeting at my place? I have another horse—we could go for a ride. Maybe have dinner?”

Keith’s stomach flipped at the mention of Black—the last mark of his horse-thieving career. When Shiro forgave him, he’d vowed never to steal again.

Another promise broken.

Still, he couldn’t help feeling excited at the prospect of seeing her again. Maybe that was the shameless part of him. But with Shiro looking at him like he couldn’t think of anything better than spending an evening together, it was easier to forgive himself.

Keith squeezed his hand. “That sounds perfect.”

Shiro’s eyes lit brighter than the moons that formed his family crest.

“Okay!” 

“We’ll need to lie low after what happened tonight, but I should be able to get away in a few days…”

Shiro was nodding before Keith finished speaking. He drew Keith’s hand close to brush a soft kiss over his knuckles. 

“I’ll be waiting.”

 

“So he snuck down first, and I went out a window onto the roof. And then I came back here.”

Keith prayed Allura wouldn’t ask about the missing time between when he left Shiro and when he arrived back at camp, well after midnight. She didn’t need to know about the hour he spent pacing the forest’s edge with his cloak tucked under his arm, waiting for the cold rain to douse the fire roaring under his skin.

He almost slumped with relief when he spotted the dip in the trail that led to their hideout up ahead. His purgatory was almost over.

“I envy you,” Allura sighed. “It’s like something out of a storybook romance. Disguising yourself, sneaking into town, stealing sweet moments with your beau until the clock strikes the hour…”

When she put it that way, it really did sound like he was living a fairy tale. The noble thief and his lordly love—not far off from his Pop’s bedtime stories. Only…

In those stories, the truth always came out eventually.

He clamped down on the thought. Easier to turn this on Allura instead—she started it. “Why don’t you give it a try? You’re a princess in disguise, trying to save her kingdom. It doesn’t get much more storybook than that.”

Allura giggled softly. “I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“There’s still time.” Keith had no idea why he felt compelled to say this, but Lance damn well better be grateful. “Maybe your romance is closer than you think.”

“Perhaps it is.” Allura’s secretive smile made Keith wonder if there was something he’d missed.

He was saved from reading into it further by the sounds of a commotion from their campground. They quickened their steps to find the clearing in relative chaos.

Lance was standing on the tree stump where they left him, doing a nervous little dance with a leg of pheasant held high above his head. The wolf pup circled the stump, hackles raised and snarling with enough ferocity for an animal twice his size. When Lance tried to ward the pup off with a weak kick, the wolf’s jaws clamped down on the toe of his boot.

The wolf would be getting an extra treat, just for that.

“Oh good, you’re back. Will you please call off your wolf?” Hunk pleaded. “I’d kind of really like to cook the meat Lance is holding.”

“He’s not mine,” Keith muttered, but at this point it was a tired argument. The wolf’s head snapped around at the sound of his voice, and it crossed the clearing at an eager lope, tail wagging. Keith dropped to his knee with a sigh, rewarding the pup with a scratch behind the ears.

“ _Right_. Not yours.” Hunk gave him a pointed look before going back to his cooking.

Lance hopped down from the stump, scowling. “What took you so long, anyway?”

Keith _knew_ he would regret trying to play wingman. And what the hell was that suspicious glare supposed to mean?

Allura cut in smoothly, laying a hand on Lance’s elbow. “I’m afraid that was my fault, Lance. I wanted a few moments with Keith to go over our recent heists. I’m sorry if we worried you.”

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Allura was a princess, seeing how easily she fit in with their mismatched company. But in moments like this, when she bandied half-truths with a disarming smile, Keith saw the signs of her royal upbringing. He knew that smile; he’d seen it on Shiro’s face time and again, especially when he was getting Keith out of trouble.

It worked just as well for Allura—Lance relaxed immediately, turning to grin dopily at her. As much as Keith wanted to flip a middle finger at Lance’s back, he managed to restrain himself. Being a leader meant making the hard decisions, sometimes.

“Now that you’re back, we should discuss our _next_ heist,” Pidge announced. She sat cross-legged at the base of the fallen log, holding a freshly inked quill. A broad sheet of parchment spread out before her, held down by rocks at the corners. Keith stepped closer to see that it was a rough blueprint of Nottingham Castle. Splotchy annotations bled into the paper in the cramped, uneven handwriting that seemed to be characteristic of all Holts.

Keith scooped up the smaller chunks of meat Hunk had set aside for him and settled down between Pidge and Coran, who remained on the edge of the log, carving knife still in hand.

“Okay,” Keith said, feeding the wolf one morsel at a time. “For starters—how many outfits do we need?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more fluff chapter remaining before we return to your regularly scheduled plot (which if I'm being honest is 80% fluff anyway). Thanks for sticking with me! <3
> 
> I'm still obsessing over sheith 24/7 on Twitter @SundaySEternal .


	8. Chapter 8

Matt sighed. “That was… extremely detailed.”

“You _did_ ask.”

“I did. Against my better judgement.” Matt had slumped forward, his face melding with the partition between their compartments; Shiro wouldn’t be surprised if the carved wood left little pink diamonds stamped into Matt’s skin. “And because I’m such an amazing friend, I’ll even ask about your dinner date, too. Please remember this next time I ask you for a favor.”

Shiro rolled his eyes. “You’ll be devastated to hear it never happened.”

“Huh? But you were all sappy and stuff. Don’t tell me the bastard stood you up?”

“Of course not!” Shiro bristled at the very suggestion. “We just… rescheduled. Due to unavoidable circumstances.”

Matt’s lips mouthed the word _circumstances_. His head snapped up, and Shiro could imagine the exaggerated sympathy on his face all too well. “Oh, Shiro. You caught a cold, didn’t you?”

 

In hindsight, maybe spending all that time in the rain wasn’t such a great idea.

The long walk Shiro took around the Garrison compound while he waited for Red was one thing—considering how things ended up, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. But he had to admit walking back alongside Atlas, face tilted toward the heavens to let the rain wash over him, _might_ have been ill-advised. By the time he met Nyma and Rolo on the road about a mile out from home, he was barely recognizable as human.

He didn’t regret the time he spent helping Rolo get Atlas settled, either. After everything he’d put her through, the least Shiro could do was see Atlas properly rubbed down and tucked warm and cozy in her stall. 

But, he _supposed_ he didn’t need to linger so long in the bath Nyma prepared for him, fading out of time and space as the evening replayed in his mind. By the time he extracted himself from the lukewarm water, it was well into the early hours of the morning; even so, he _probably_ should have at least dried his hair before flopping into bed.

Sleep eluded him. He spent several hours tossing and turning, finally rising before the sun to vent his restlessness on the straw mannequins in his courtyard. At least Rolo had the decency not to comment when he met Shiro there with a towel and a plate of fresh scones. Shiro had always liked that about Rolo.

Sure, his mind felt a little fuzzy as he spent his day helping his tenants repair damages from the heavy rain, but he didn’t think it was worth worrying about—until he blacked out on his way to the table for a late dinner.

So, yes, he’d admit this little head cold might have been preventable. He’d just been too overwhelmed by the heat in his veins to notice his literal fever.

Shiro groaned petulantly, slouching against the pile of newly-fluffed pillows propping him up, and dragged his mother’s favorite quilt closer to his chin. As he let go, his fingertips dipped underneath, brushing against his collar bone. He didn’t need to see the marks to know where they lay, tracing the shapes with easy familiarity. He hoped they wouldn’t fade for some time, yet.

Hoped before they did, he might return the favor.

He sank back, slapping his hand over his eyes. He might’ve had the opportunity tonight, if he wasn’t trapped in bed. He’d planned to pack a special picnic dinner and give Nyma and Rolo the next morning off, just in case. But no man ruined his own plans as thoroughly or as frequently as Takashi Shirogane.

A soft rustling sound at the window made him wince. He’d opened it as a petty act of rebellion soon after Nyma left the room, but he wasn’t sure the fresh air was worth explaining how a raccoon got in. Better swallow his pride and close it after all.

But the shadow that fell over his bed was longer than any raccoon. He dropped his hand just in time to see a scarlet-cloaked form hop to the floor.

Shiro sat up fast enough to start seeing stars. “Red! How—” 

His scratchy voice cut off when Red placed a finger against his lips.

“Shh. Nyma’s sleeping right outside the door. And Rolo’s downstairs in the kitchen.” Red smiled. “Whatever he’s making smells pretty good.”

Shiro’s mouth twisted into a pout under Red’s finger. “Told them to go home,” he mumbled.

Red chuckled softly. “They care about you. Cut them some slack, okay?”

As much as he didn’t want to lose Red’s touch, it was a little bit of a relief when the thief’s finger left Shiro’s mouth. Breathing through his nose was almost impossible at the moment. Something about the scar across his face made congestion that much worse.

Shiro let out a quiet grumbling sound and burrowed into his pillows. “Just don’t like being fussed over.”

“You don’t say,” Red drawled, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Shiro watched hazily as Red tugged the glove from his right hand, which he then slid under Shiro’s sweaty bangs to press against his forehead. Shiro’s eyelids fluttered closed at the touch. Red’s palm felt blessedly cool and dry against his clammy skin.

“You’re burning up.” Red shifted his hand, knuckles brushing Shiro’s flushed cheek. “How long?”

Shiro didn’t have the energy to play coy. “Since last night.” He swallowed roughly. “Fever, sore throat, runny nose. The works.”

He punctuated his words with a pathetic cough.

Red’s slender fingers combed through Shiro’s bangs. He was still smiling, but the slant of his brows under his mask looked troubled.

“I can’t believe you actually got sick,” he murmured.

“S’not your fault.” Shiro tried to look stern, but the feeling of Red’s blunt nails on his scalp was a little too distracting.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You’re thinking it,” Shiro accused.

Red hesitated for several seconds, chewing on his bottom lip. Shiro almost regretted saying anything, until his fingers resumed their path through Shiro’s hair.

“You only got caught in the rain because I was late,” Red argued. His tone was halfhearted, as if expecting Shiro to shoot him down.

“Could’ve waited inside,” Shiro said. “Could’ve just gone home. My choice.”

Red scowled at him, fingers tugging slightly. _That_ was the best thing Shiro had felt all day. “You should make better choices.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Shiro let his eyes close again. Red’s nails scraped through the shorter hair behind his ear, almost as if he were a cat. He might start purring if he wasn’t careful.

“Used to get sick a lot,” he admitted. “When I was little. I’d cough once, and everybody panicked. I’d get fevers all the time. Wasn’t allowed to play outside. Might _overexert_ myself.”

Red’s hand slid down to cup the back of Shiro’s neck, callused fingertips kneading into the aching muscle.

“You must’ve hated it,” he murmured.

“Mm.” Shiro pressed back into the touch. “Still hate it. The feeling of a wet cloth on my forehead… The way the air in the room gets stale after I’m stuck here for too long. I’m not allowed to eat any good food. And the medicine… I know they say you know it works because it tastes bad, but does it have to be so _bitter_?” He made a face, earning a small huff of laughter from Red. “But the worst thing… is the way everybody worries. Sometimes... I can’t remember what my mother’s face looked like, when she wasn’t worried.”

She’d had long, dark hair, and eyes very much like his. He knew that much from the oil portrait in the hall. But when he tried to banish the painted likeness, to picture her face in the flesh, he could only imagine her brow creased in worry. Even in the painting, her expression was serious, stately. He’d give almost anything to remember what her smile looked like.

“It happened when I was six. Usually my fever would break in a day or two, but that time, it didn’t. She spent every day taking care of me, until one day, she collapsed. She was sick, too. Before we knew it, half the household was sick. It was an epidemic. By the time it was over, a fourth of the people in Nottingham had died. Nyma’s sister, and Rolo’s father. I survived, but…”

Red listened silently. His hand had drifted beneath the loose collar of Shiro’s nightshirt, working out the tightness in the bend of Shiro’s shoulder.

“I didn’t get sick very often, after that. I thought it was because they all took the sickness from me. Because she died in my place.”

The squeeze of Red’s fingers became almost painful. “ _Shiro_.”

“I know.” Shiro cracked an eye open, forcing a wry smile. “I was a kid. Besides, if that were true, I wouldn’t be sick now, right? It’s just, when I’m stuck in bed like this, it makes me remember. Reminds me… how helpless I am.” He sighed bitterly. “One way or another, everybody keeps leaving me behind.”

His father, who died shortly after he was born. His mother. His grandfather. Keith. Sam Holt, and Katie. Even Adam. The people he loved disappeared from his life, one by one, and he was powerless to stop them.

“Shiro…” Red’s throat worked, like there was something he needed to say, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out. His eyes were liquid violet in the waning light of Shiro’s room.

_Great job, Shirogane. Such a romantic conversation topic._

“Sorry.” Shiro’s attempt at a casual laugh sounded more like a wheezing cough, but he hoped the feeling came across. He brushed his fingertips through the fringe of Red’s hair. “That got kind of dark, huh?” 

He cupped Red’s face in his palm, smiling a little when Red leaned into the touch. “Listen—I meant what I said before. I do get lonely, sometimes.” _Especially when I’m stuck in bed, feeling sorry for myself._ “I miss the people I’ve lost. But I know I’m not alone.” He slid his thumb along the scar on Red’s cheek. “I have you. Right?”

Red inhaled a shaky breath. His free hand came up to cover Shiro’s, pressing Shiro’s palm closer against his skin.

“Yeah,” he whispered, painfully sincere. “You have me, Shiro.”

The words hit Shiro like an arrow straight to the heart. He resented his illness more than ever—he’d never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life.

_What did I do to deserve you?_

“Thanks, Red.” He knew his expression was embarrassingly sappy, but he had nothing left to hide. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Red turned his head so he could press his lips to Shiro’s palm. The gesture was almost too sweet and open for Shiro to process in his fevered state. If this kept up, Nyma might find a Shiro-shaped puddle of melted goo when she came back in to check on him.

“You should rest,” Red said.

Shiro pouted. “But then you’ll leave.”

“You’re such a baby,” Red complained, but there was no heat in it. He nuzzled Shiro’s hand once more before dragging it back to the bed. “The sooner you rest, the sooner you’ll get better.”

In situations like this, dignity was overrated. Shiro immediately snagged the sleeve of Red’s cloak. 

“Wait.” His eyes scanned the room desperately until he set upon the teapot Nyma had left on his bedside table. “Have some tea with me, first? Please?”

Begging was worthwhile for the soft, exasperated smile it brought to Red’s lips.

“ _One_ cup,” he relented.

Shiro nodded fast enough to make himself dizzy. “Just one. Then I’ll sleep, I promise.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Red turned to the side table and picked up one of the delicate China cups. They were Shiro’s favorite set, deep blue with starlight patterns painted in pale pink and white. Shiro silently blessed Nyma for leaving two of them.

“Since I’m here,” Red said, “I may as well tell you—we’ve picked our next target.”

“Oh?”

A sly smirk crept onto Red’s face. “Pidge finished decoding Sendak’s letters. He’s going to a masquerade at Nottingham Castle a week from tomorrow.”

“A masquerade? That’s… a little out of character.”

Shiro tried to picture Sendak in a glitzy costume. The result was… less than flattering.

Red’s low laugh curled warm around Shiro’s heart, like the steam from the herbal tea he was pouring. “The masquerade is just a cover. It sounds like Zarkon is gathering all his lackeys together that night. He must have something special planned, and we need to find out what it is.”

Without direction from Shiro, Red spooned three healthy dollops of honey into the cup, stirring slowly. Shiro’s throat felt a little better already.

“And, if he gathers everyone in one place, we’ll have easier access to other parts of the castle.” Red swept the spoon from the cup with a flourish, smirk turning wicked. “It’s our best shot to get in the warden’s office.”

Shiro’s heart thundered. “You can find out where they’re holding Sam.”

“You got it.” Red passed they honeyed cup of tea into Shiro’s waiting hand.

For a moment, Shiro simply cradled the cup close to his chest, letting the warmth seep into his skin. To finally have a real opportunity to save Sam, after so many years of loss… It didn’t feel real.

_Finally_ , he might have the power to take someone back.

“How can I help?”

The predatory curve of Red’s grin gentled into something much softer. He finished pouring his own tea—no honey, this time—and raised the cup to his lips, meeting Shiro’s eyes over the tapered rim.

“Security’s gonna be tight. We’ll need an ally on the inside, especially if something goes wrong.”

That sounded easy enough. For all Shiro knew, he might already have an invitation buried in the ever-growing pile of unopened correspondence on his desk. And if not, he would just have to make Sendak find a reason to bring him along. He should have enough blackmail material built up by now to make it a fairly easy conversation.

Plus, Zarkon couldn’t throw the party of the season without feeding his guests. Shiro would never turn down a chance to sample the royal chefs’ specialties.

He lifted his cup toward Red, an offered toast.

“Consider it done.”

Red tapped his cup to Shiro’s with a satisfying clink.

All this talking had worn down Shiro’s throat more than he’d realized. He drained the entire cup in one go, relishing the smooth finish. It was more honey than tea at this point—just how Shiro liked it.

Red watched him with an expression of poorly veiled disgust, nose adorably wrinkled under his mask.

Shiro’s last swallow turned into a choking cough.

“Whoa.” Red was hovering in an instant, prying the cup from Shiro’s hand and rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Easy, Shiro. Just breathe.”

_Breathe_. Sound advice. Shiro focused on dragging air back into his lungs, one shaky gasp at a time. Red’s hand was a grounding weight between his shoulders. Shiro let himself slump closer, leaning his temple against Red’s chest, and shivered when Red’s other hand cupped the back of his head.

He should thank his throat for betraying him, really—it kept him from begging Red to take off the mask, right then and there.

_Just breathe._

“I think that’s enough tea,” Red murmured, voice softly rumbling under Shiro’s ear.

Shiro managed a wheezing laugh. “I think you’re right.”

Yet he made no move to pull away. Instead, he curled his arm around Red’s back and hid his eyes against the thief’s black shirt.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this. So what if Red didn’t like sweetened tea—lots of people found Shiro’s sweet tooth a little too extreme for their tastes. If Red just so happened to react the same way Keith did, it could still be a coincidence.

_Still_ , a less cooperative part of Shiro’s brain protested, _he knew_ exactly _how much honey to put in my tea._

Shiro didn’t even take his tea with honey often—only when his throat was bothering him. As much as he liked to think Red paid attention to him, could he really explain this away as a lucky guess?

_Enough._

If he went down that road in his current state, he’d lose his mind. He closed his eyes, squeezing Red a little tighter. 

Red’s arms folded around him. 

Time passed gently in the haven of Shiro’s room. Sunset shadows stretched across the faded woven carpet. A breeze whispered through his open window, shifting his lavender curtains and chilling the back of his neck. Shiro kept still, committing the moments to memory, and simply let himself be held.

Too soon, Red spoke into the silence, lips moving against Shiro’s hair. “Okay, old timer. You promised you’d sleep.”

Shiro didn’t quite whine when Red pulled away, but it was a near thing. He watched, pouting, while Red fluffed his pillows and rearranged them into a suitable nest. When Red pushed down on his shoulders, he lay back obediently.

“For the masquerade,” he started. “I could—”

Red’s finger stopped his mouth again.

“Nope. We had a deal. First, you sleep. We’ll work out the details when you’re better.”

Red tucked the quilt securely around Shiro’s shoulders, smoothing a hand over the pattern of yellow flowers sewn onto the fabric. It was all Shiro could do not to reach for him again.

_Don’t go._

“After telling me all that, how do you expect me to rest?” Shiro grumbled.

“Try.” Red’s tone was dry, but the amused curve of his lips softened it. Shiro desperately wanted to kiss him.

_Don’t leave me behind again._

Red glanced at the closed door, and then back to Shiro’s face.

“If it helps… I can stay here, until you fall asleep. Or until someone comes to check on you.”

Relief punched through Shiro like a fist to the gut. “ _Please_.”

Somehow, impossibly, Red seemed just as relieved. 

“Okay.” He tucked a loose piece of dark hair behind an ear flushed rosy pink, smiling sweetly. “I’m here, Shiro.”

Shiro’s greedy eyes followed the movement of Red’s hand. How did one say _please pet my hair again_ without sounding too needy?

Thankfully, Red was always quick on the uptake. With a quiet, embarrassed laugh, he shuffled closer to Shiro’s bed. His fingers combed back Shiro’s bangs before he paused, biting his lip.

Before Shiro could tell him to forget it, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Shiro’s forehead.

Shiro blinked against the sudden sting at the back of his eyelids. He had people who worried for him, and cared for him, but no one treated him so _tenderly_. It felt like being shattered and healed all at once.

Red drew back only far enough to settle on his knees at Shiro’s bedside. He braced his elbow on the mattress at Shiro’s side, resting his cheek against his hand with a peaceful smile. His fingers stroked a comforting pattern through Shiro’s hair.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispered.

For possibly the first time in his life, Shiro found himself thinking it might actually be nice to be fussed over, sometimes.

 

“Shiro?” Matt snapped his fingers twice on the other side of the booth. “You still with me?”

Shiro returned to himself with a jolt. Shit, how long had he been spacing out?

“Sorry.” Another blush flared on his cheeks. “Got lost in my thoughts for a bit there.”

On second thought, maybe he would keep this particular story to himself. The memory of that evening lived in a part of his heart that still felt a little too vulnerable to crack open.

“I noticed.” Matt leaned against the dividing wall, resting his temple against the partition. Shiro could see the smile on his face, a mix of fondness and gentle concern. “You’re really gone on this guy, huh?”

That was putting it mildly. Shiro knew he was in over his head. He was well on his way to falling in love with Red, and he hadn’t even seen the man’s face.

“I just wish I knew more about him,” he admitted. “He’s never even told me what to call him.”

“Well, it’s not like you don’t know _anything_. You have to have learned some things just from being around him.” Matt settled himself more squarely on the other side of the divide. “Let’s think it through. What are some things you _do_ know?”

That was Matt—ever the problem-solver. Shiro had to smile.

“He’s a wicked fighter. Good enough to beat me,” Shiro began. “He’s a decent thief—”

Matt scoffed. “Maybe when you’re not distracting him.”

“Touché.” Shiro grinned. “He’s loyal. It’s hard to imagine him breaking a promise. And he’s earnest. And expressive, somehow, even with the mask. It’s easy to tell how he’s feeling. He’s…”

Now that he’d started, the list of things Shiro knew about Red felt endless. _He’s cute and grumpy when he’s embarrassed. He’s ticklish around his ears. He’s a little too good with his mouth…_

Maybe he could spare Matt some of these more intimate details—they were friends, but Shiro still had _some_ social graces left. Besides, he’d rather keep some things to himself.

“Oh!” It was Shiro’s turn to snap his fingers. Of course—how could he forget the most relevant fact he’d gleaned from Sendak’s ill-fated dinner? “He’s Marmora!”

“Marmora? Isn’t that a warrior clan?”

Shiro nodded. “Sendak recognized the dagger Red carries. He said only those with Marmora blood can make it transform, and I’ve seen Red do that twice now. He’s the real deal.”

“Wait, your boyfriend has a magic shapeshifting dagger? And you didn’t think to mention this before now?” Matt clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Shiro, you’ve been holding out on me.”

“Hmm, not sure I want to hear that from you right now.”

Matt winced. “Fair point. So, we know he’s part of a secret warrior society. What do you know about _them_?”

“Not much,” Shiro admitted. “Just that they’re elite fighters who work as mercenaries. They sided against us in the Border Wars. And the book I checked said they wear masks, and only lovers and close family get to see their faces. So maybe Red and I just aren’t there yet.”

The idea shouldn’t hurt as much as it did.

The tone of Matt’s voice was painfully knowing. “But you’d like to be?”

Truth be told, Shiro had met Red only a handful of times; they probably hadn’t spent more than a few hours in each other’s company. Their relationship was moving at a breakneck pace, considering. But something about Red whittled Shiro’s hard-won patience down to meager threads. There was a hunger in him, a desperate, insatiable thing clawing at the inside of his ribs, demanding more.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, I would.”

He wanted to see Red’s face, yes. But more than that, he wanted Red to want to show him. He longed to achieve that level of trust, to be worthy of sharing all Red’s secrets.

“Maybe there’s something I’m missing,” he mused, mostly thinking out loud. “Something different I need to do. Like a kind of courtship ritual.”

Matt sucked in a breath. “Whoa. Courtship? Shiro, this sounds serious.”

Until this moment, Shiro hadn’t realized quite how serious he was. But now that he’d put that grasping feeling into words, he couldn’t take them back. He wanted Red under his skin and in his bed and sitting across from him at breakfast every morning, close enough for their feet to touch under the table.

“I am serious. He’s incredible, Matt. I’ve—”

The words _never known anyone like him_ lodged in Shiro’s throat, like a lemon drop too large to swallow.

He couldn’t say it.

It wasn’t true.

Matt shifted, squinting through the partition. “Shiro?”

“Is it…”

This was the confessional, after all—he may as well lay it all on the table.

Shiro sucked in a breath and spilled the question in a rush. “Is it weird if he reminds me of Keith?”

_There_. He said it.

Every second of Matt’s silence ate away at Shiro’s nerves. Dammit, he _knew_ he shouldn’t have said anything. It was a stupid question—of _course_ it was weird.

But no matter how he tried to bury it, those moments continued to haunt him. The familiar wrinkle of Red’s nose while he watched Shiro drink his tea. The deep, devastating loyalty in his eyes, terrifying and infinitely precious. The way he looked at Shiro and seemed to truly see him, in a way no one but Keith ever had.

When Matt finally spoke, his reply wasn’t what Shiro expected.

“Weird how? Because you’re attracted to him?”

Judgment, Shiro could handle; worst case, he figured Matt might laugh him off, and that would be the end of it. This barely veiled incredulity in Matt’s tone threw him off balance.

“Yes? I mean…” Shiro gestured helplessly. “It’s _Keith_.”

Keith, the boy who stole the horse no one else could ride. Keith, who got back up for another round no matter how many times Shiro took him down. Keith, who handed Shiro a golden arrow and his undying loyalty, trusting Shiro to keep both like the treasures they were. Keith, who always seemed to show up exactly when Shiro started looking for an escape.

Keith, who said _I’m sorry_ when Shiro was the one who failed him.

“Shiro… Hear me out.” Matt spoke slowly, the way he would when explaining one of his projects to a junior apprentice. “I know Keith was like your protégé, and you tried to look out for him. But a lot of the time, it felt like he was looking out for you just as much. You were _friends_. And honestly, I kinda thought you might be more than that, someday.”

He held up a hand, stalling the words on Shiro’s lips. It was just as well, considering Shiro didn’t really know what he wanted to say.

“I know it wasn’t like that back then—he and I were still practically snot-nosed kids. But it’s been five years since we’ve seen the guy. Think about it this way: your best friend, the guy who gets you better than anyone—the guy you missed like crazy—suddenly comes back all grown up and good-smelling and strong enough to pin you down and throw you and all that stuff you’re into, _and_ he still treats you like you put all the stars in the sky. Wouldn’t it be weirder if you _didn’t_ fall for him?”

Well. When he put it _that_ way, Shiro’s fretting did seem a little ridiculous. Damn the Holts and their unerring logic.

“I guess I see your point.”

“Was Keith Marmora?”

That _was_ the question, wasn’t it? Shiro slumped back into the corner with a weary sigh.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I won’t say it’s impossible, though.” 

They both knew Keith had lived in a log shack just past the forest’s edge, safely beyond any estate property lines. His father was a freeman who was well-liked in Nottingham, if a little reclusive. The man died when Keith was eight, helping a family in town escape from their burning home. Keith had never really talked about his mother, so Shiro always assumed he never knew her.

“Anyway, I’m not saying Red _is_ Keith.” Though the idea wouldn’t stop niggling at his mind, always ready to pounce in his unguarded moments. “Just… he reminds me of him, sometimes. In his mannerisms.”

“Sure, sure. Well, either way, it can’t hurt to work the Marmora angle. I’ll see if we have any texts about them in our libraries. The guys here have researched pretty much anything you can think of.” Matt pointed a warning finger at Shiro. “But if we find out you need to do a sword dance at twilight or some shit to win your thief’s hand, you’re on your own.”

Shiro snorted. “Duly noted.”

He’d do it, if he had to. And while Matt might not help, he would definitely be there to watch and laugh at Shiro’s expense.

“Thanks, Matt. And thanks for listening.”

Matt waved a hand. “It’s the least I can do.” He hesitated. “Pidge told me about the plan to crash the masquerade. You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I’m their contingency plan.”

“Watch your back, okay? They don’t let apprentices in on everything, but I hear things.” He lowered his voice, as though Father Antok might somehow be listening. Picturing the giant, stern-faced man, Shiro somehow wouldn’t be surprised if he was. “They’re saying Lord Hedrick was arrested for treason, over in Clifton. He gave us a big donation every Christmas, so the monks were discussing how to make up the loss.”

_Yikes_. Shiro didn’t know Lord Hedrick personally, but they both understood the implications. Up until now, Prince Zarkon’s arrests had been limited to people like Sam Holt—peasants, freemen, and tradesmen, without the funds or the social connections to protect themselves.

“I know you’re doing this for Dad, and I appreciate that. But you need to be careful. If Sendak catches you doing anything suspicious, your title might not be enough to protect you anymore.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Shiro. He’d spent so many years resenting his immunity, lamenting that for all his fortune and influence, he couldn’t actually _do_ anything. And now, when he finally had the chance to use his family name to accomplish something worthwhile, that immunity might no longer apply. It was certainly a sobering thought.

“I’ll watch my step,” Shiro promised. And he meant it, for the most part. He wouldn’t be much good to Sam locked up in a neighboring cell.

Besides, if Red felt guilty about Shiro catching a cold, heaven only knew how he’d react if Shiro got arrested for helping him.

Matt’s grunt sounded decidedly unconvinced, but he seemed to realize there was no point in arguing further. When he leaned in again, Shiro could see his leer through the partition.

“If it’s a masquerade, that means you have a costume, right? Did Nyma design something for you?”

_Right_. The masquerade finally gave Nyma an excuse to dress Shiro up as she saw fit. The mere memory of the gleam in her eye was enough to make him shudder.

“Don’t dodge the question,” Matt warned. “You know she’ll tell me if you won’t.”

Shiro did know. He still wasn’t sure when Matt got so chummy with his attendants, but he regretted it on a weekly basis. Daily, even. Sometimes hourly.

“I’ll talk. But can we get some of that bread first?” As if on cue, the growl of Shiro’s stomach echoed in the small chamber. “I’m starving.”

Matt laughed. “Fine. Let’s move this to the kitchens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashback portion of this chapter was almost entirely written back in July, while I was sick in bed for a week. XD
> 
> Next chapter is the masquerade! There might be a longer break than usual before the next release because there's lots of moving parts to plot out. I'll also be out of the country for two weeks next month, so I'm not sure how much writing I'll manage during that time. I'll post updates on my Twitter @SundaySEternal ! <3


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